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*  •• 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 


THE 
DOCTOR'S  LASS 

BY 

EDWARD  C.  BOOTH 


NEW  YORK 
THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1910 


Copyright,  1910,  by 
THE  CENTURY  Co. 


Published.  May.  1910 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 


ON  a  morning  in  late  summer  the  Doctor  came  down  to 
breakfast.  The  sun,  blazing  through  the  great  east 
landing  window,  stained  its  elongated  image  in  gold  down 
the  stair-case  wall,  casting  a  lemon  reflection  on  the  Doctor's 
cheek  as  he  descended,  to  where  the  fenestral  glory  faded 
in  the  dark  spaciousness  of  stone-flagged  hall.  A  stray 
gleam  of  sunlight  struck  the  bleak  glasses  on  the  pendant 
lamp,  swinging  on  its  triple  chain  from  a  discolored  disk  on 
the  cracked  ceiling,  and  radiated  prismatic  spokes  of  light 
that  diffused  themselves  over  the  dim  marbled  wall-paper, 
and  translated  with  a  quivering  eagerness  the  message  of 
sunshine  without  to  the  dreary  squareness  within.  Through 
the  broad  fanlight  over  the  door,  stained  in  its  border  with 
crimson  and  amber  and  regal  purple,  the  Doctor  —  had  he 
lifted  his  eyes  —  might  have  seen  the  message  of  summer 
gladness  confirmed  in  a  sunlit  glimpse  of  sycamore  and 
drooping  green  laburnum ;  with  blue  sky  filling  the  spaces 
to  the  margin  of  the  glass,  but  he  scarcely  so  much  as  raised 
his  head.  The  great  hall,  chill  from  its  stone  flags,  and 
dim  with  the  breath  that  comes  of  a  soulless  seclusion,  as  of 
moldering  air  whose  movement  is  restricted  to  this  one  place ; 
of  an  indigenous  atmosphere  grown  venerable  enough  for 
the  tomb,  soaked  up  the  spiritless  sound  of  the  Doctor's  foot- 
steps as  he  turned  into  the  morning  room,  without  echo  of 

3 


4  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

warmth  or  welcome.  Anybody  habituated  to  the  language  of 
halls  and  the  speech  of  empty  houses  might  have  known  that 
this  was  a  lonely  man,  dragging  the  weary  chains  of  a  lonely 
life;  a  ghost  occupying  a  corporal  tenement,  and  haunting 
these  premises  rather  than  habiting  them. 

Of  medium  height,  or  perhaps  —  to  be  exact  —  below  it, 
the  Doctor  offered  in  his  blend  of  characteristics  an  engag- 
ing puzzle  to  the  inquiries  after  age.  His  careless  garb  and 
the  stoop  of  his  shoulders,  with,  perhaps,  the  weight  of  a 
brown  mustache  slightly  too  heavy  for  his  build,  hinted  at 
maturity;  but  the  brown  eyes,  the  smooth  brow,  and  the 
noticeably  fresh  complexion  bespoke  much  rather  the  boy. 
His  stoop,  too,  hinted  the  willful  carelessness  of  the  school- 
boy more  than  any  natural  submission  to  his  years,  and  his 
figure,  though  the  negligent  garments  lent  nothing  to  its 
smartness,  had  somewhere  about  its  limbs  a  youthful  buoy- 
ancy, perversely  subjugated  and  repressed,  but  not  expelled. 
As  a  matter  of  history,  the  Doctor  was  thirty-six,  but  he 
was  older  and  younger  than  that.  He  strode  his  age,  in- 
deed, as  lads  do  donkeys,  with  a  variable  seat;  now  up 
in  the  saddle,  now  hanging  by  the  creature's  neck;  master 
of  their  steed  by  moments,  and  its  slave  at  times.  The 
brown  in  his  eyes  was  warm  enough  to  lend  sympathy  to 
any  glance  that  he  might  give,  but  the  gaze  itself  seemed  to 
have  acquired  an  uneasy  manner  as  though  seeking  solitude 
rather  than  the  society  of  looks.  Yet  there  was  nothing 
mean  or  furtive  about  the  Doctor's  reserve ;  on  the  contrary, 
there  was  a  sort  of  troubled  kindliness  over  the  countenance 
that  protected  its  owner  against  any  suspicion  of  meanness 
or  deception,  and  on  such  occasions  as  he  smiled,  one  seemed 
to  catch  a  sudden  vista  of  sunlit  nature  as  when  one  sights 
green  terraces  through  an  open  gate.  In  Sunfleet  the  doctor 
was  always  reckoned  among  the  "  bonny  "  men  —  which  is 
no  synonym  for  the  term  "  beauty,"  although  it  may  contain 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  5 

it  by  inference,  like  the  sugar  in  Medling's  toddy  —  and  cer- 
tainly the  integrity  of  his  heart  was  never  questioned.  "  He'd 
do  aught  for  onnybody,"  was  the  general  opinion. 

The  large  morning  room,  where  often  his  predecessor  the 
great  Dendy  had  extended  his  ample  chest  to  the  warmth  of 
the  young  sun,  or  where,  on  chill  winter  mornings,  he  must 
have  spread  coat-tails  to  the  more  genial  ministration  of  a  red 
fire,  stirred  no  deeper  acknowledgment  in  the  Doctor's  eye 
than  the  hall  had  done.  Before  the  white  breakfast  cloth, 
spread  over  the  spacious  area  of  the  late  physician's  table, 
his  lonely  chair  confronted  the  distant  knife  and  fork  and 
meager  accouterments  of  a  solitary  meal.  The  room  itself, 
that  sympathetic  hands  might  have  molded  into  a  unity  of 
cheerful  comfort  —  as  doubtless  we  should  have  found  it  in 
the  defunct  Dendy's  days  —  showed  no  more  than  an  indis- 
criminate collection  of  uncommunicative  furniture,  like  an 
omnibus  of  strange  people,  all  looking  their  several  ways, 
with  divergent  heads,  and  mantled  with  a  stilted  silence. 
Before  the  great  bay  window,  catching  already  the  first  glint 
of  the  creeping  sun,  stood  Dendy's  red  mahogany  secretaire, 
ponderous,  full  of  inkhorn  wisdom  and  deep  knowledge,  that 
the  present  Doctor's  mother  had  bid  for  at  the  sale  with 
trembling  hope  that  Medling's  wife  was  done  at  four  pounds 
ten,  and  a  tear  for  the  dead  owner.  And  there,  in  gilded 
protection  of  the  marble  fireplace,  gleamed  Dendy's  brass 
fender,  that  for  a  shilling's  worth  of  hesitation  nearly  went, 
along  with  some  bedroom  crockery,  to  Peterwick.  The 
chairs  and  sofa,  ministers  of  necessity  rather  than  of  com- 
fort, all  upholstered  in  funereal  horsehair,  and  dispersed 
moodily  about  the  room  like  bearers  and  undertakers'  men, 
thirsty  of  light  as  the  latter  are  of  liquid,  and  drinking 
up  on  an  evening  the  last  drains  of  mellow  twilight  like 
sherry  —  these  had  formed  part  of  the  Doctor's  early  home. 
So,  too,  had  the  unvaluable  pictures  on  the  walls ;  the  vases 


6  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

on  the  chimney-piece ;  the  Victorian  fire-screens  —  holding 
the  flame  at  bay  with  faded  panels  of  worked  silk  —  and  the 
polished  coal-scuttle  with  the  Newfoundland  dog's  head  in 
living  colors;  the  cadaverous  bookcase  and  the  heavy  Chip- 
pendale oak  sideboard.  A  woman's  hand,  perhaps,  would 
have  subdued  all  these  irrelevant  articles  to  a  standard  of 
sympathy  and  agreement ;  reconciled  them  to  a  Christian  for- 
bearance and  toleration.  But  it  was  not  to  be.  Death  had 
drawn  those  fragile  fingers  in  his  and  stilled  them,  and 
death's  own  chill  had  fallen  over  the  uncompleted  work. 
The  plans  for  the  house's  transformation  that  the  mother 
had  confided  to  her  son  in  the  first  warm  moments  of  their 
zeal  were  mere  dust  in  the  dark  corners  of  his  memory. 
From  the  day  of  his  mother's  death  the  Doctor  had  turned 
his  eyes  away,  almost  deliberately  it  seemed,  from  the 
household  pages  that  held  the  last  brief  chronicles  of  her 
life. 

His  first  act,  on  entering  the  room  this  morning,  was  to 
throw  open  the  broad  window  sashes,  one  after  the  other, 
and  to  admit  the  morning  air.  It  sprawled  in  with  alacrity, 
half  warm,  half  chill,  like  the  raw  and  ripe  of  mellowing  ap- 
ples ;  grass  scented  and  dew  cooled,  and  played  silently  about 
the  fabric  of  the  austere  lace  curtains,  but  the  Doctor  spent 
no  time  on  its  appreciation.  He  turned  at  once  away  to  the 
mottled  brass  bell-handle  on  the  side  of  the  fireplace,  and 
sent  a  summoning  message  along  the  rusty  bell-cranks  to 
the  kitchen,  where  it  ended  in  a  dead  and  joyless  peal, 
muffled  through  intervening  doors.  After  awhile  there  rose 
a  distant  stir  as  of  wind  in  motion;  the  curtains  bellied  in- 
ward; the  room  door,  left  open  by  the  Doctor's  hand,  was 
sucked  back  silently  on  its  sneck;  there  was  a  muffled  thud 
betokening  knees  in  conflict  with  panels,  and  the  house- 
keeper pushed  her  way  into  the  room  behind  the  breakfast 
tray.  With,  a  quick  lifting  of  the  eyes,  in  a  greeting  more 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  7 

injured  than  respectful,  she  bent  her  withered  face  to  the 
table  and  laid  there  the  accessories  of  the  Doctor's  meal.  All 
these  were  disposed  with  a  rigid  precision  of  hand,  accom- 
panied by  a  tightness  of  mouth  as  though  she  were  ruling 
lines  of  conduct  and  behavior  in  the  Doctor's  moral  copy- 
book, for  his  discipline  and  guidance.  The  porridge  plate, 
wreathing  steam,  was  stamped  like  a  hot  seal  on  the  table 
charter.  She  adjusted  the  spoon,  drew  with  something  like 
petulance  the  handle  of  the  sugar  sifter  more  conveniently  to 
the  Doctor's  reach,  as  though,  at  the  same  time,  weary  of 
doing  so  many  exact  offices  for  one  incapable  of  following 
them  for  his  own  advantage,  and  concluded  with  a  brief 
intimation  that  the  Doctor's  meal  was  ready.  He  drew  to 
the  table  with  a  slight  flush  over  his  fresh  cheeks,  and  on  his 
lips  a  kind  of  guilty  school-boy  smile  —  a  faint  smile  far  less 
of  humor  than  of  a  conscious  shame  that  seeks  to  dilute  itself 
in  any  expression  rather  than  candor  or  remorse. 

"  I  suppose  you're  not  going  to  speak  to  me  this  morning, 
Anne,"  he  said. 

"  What's  use  ? "  answered  the  housekeeper  with  brief  re- 
buke. "  You're  your  own  master  noo,  I  expect,  and  can 
please  yoursen  what  time  ye  gan  to  bed  and  what  company 
ye  keep.  It's  not  for  me  to  interfere.  All  I  can  do  is  to 
strike  a  light  and  draw  watch  frev  under  my  pillow  when  I 
hear  ye  shut  door  o'  yon  fellow's  back,  and  hope  ti  goodness 
ye've  blown  lamp  out.  If  it's  God  will  we'm  to  be  burned 
i'  oor  beds  one  o'  these  nights,  it's  not  for  me  to  contradict 
it.  Half-past  two,  it  was  —  and  smoke  i'  yon  room  fit  to 
fell  a  body  when  I  opened  door  this  morning.  As  for 
matches,  if  there  was  yan  i'  fireplace  there  was  a  boxful. 
No  wonder  he  dizn't  prosper.  If  he  had  'em  to  pick  up. 
he'd  begin  to  know  vally  on  'em." 

The  Doctor  sighed  under  the  indictment,  a  sigh  with  a  pale 
smile  swimming  in  it  like  a  slice  of  lemon  in  soda,  just  to 


8  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

disguise  the  flatness  of  the  beverage,  as  it  were,  for  his  own 
palate. 

"  Pridgeon's  a  careless  fellow,  I  know,"  he  admitted  indul- 
gently. 

"  Careless !  "  the  housekeeper  repeated,  with  threads  of 
veined  indignation  streaking  her  withered  cheeks.  "  Is  that 
all  name  yon  can  gie  him?  I  could  bide  to  pick  up  onny- 
body's  matches  but  his.  He  never  throws  two  i'  same  spot, 
and  main  part  on  'em  hasn't  been  struck  at  all.  It  caps  me 
you  can  bide  to  have  syke  a  nowter  aboot  place." 

"  I  suppose  —  it's  easier  than  stopping  him,"  the  Doctor 
reflected. 

"  You'd  stop  him  soon  enough,"  the  housekeeper  said. 
"  nobbut  you'd  just  lock  up  yon  whisky  yance  or  twice.  It's 
that  he  comes  for,  not  you.  Onnybody'll  tell  you  same,  that 
tells  truth.  Syke  a  chap  is  a  friend  to  nobody  but  hissen, 
and  a  bad  'un  there.  Wi'  his  fond  talk  and  laughing  ways 
—  there's  never  any  goodness  in  it.  When  you  hear  yon 
fellow  laugh,  you  may  know  very  well  what  sort  o'  talk's 
behind  it." 

"  You  shouldn't  listen  to  him,  Anne,"  the  doctor  said.  "  I 
scarcely  do." 

"  Who  can  help  listening  tiv  him  ?  "  the  housekeeper  cried. 
"If  he  didn't  mean  onnybody  to  listen  tiv  him,  he  shouldn't 
drop  his  voice,  nor  you  shouldn't  encourage  him  by  saying 
hush.  I  know  very  well  whose  ears  you're  hintin'  at  when 
you  do. 

"  Aye,"  she  reflected  with  a  sigh.  "  Things  has  altered  sin' 
your  poor  mother  died.  We  had  some  respect  for  oursens 
when  she  was  alive,  and  you  never  swore  yance  but  she 
would  come  to  me  and  hope  you  wasn't  falling  inti  your 
father's  ways.  Not  that  you  ever  could,  for  you've  neither 
his  heighth  nor  his  breadth,  and  bad  language  doesn't  become 
your  lips  as  it  did  his.  It's  the  big  men  that  swears  best, 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  9 

and  I  won't  deny  it  suits  'em  at  times,  so  long  as  it  isn't  a 
habit.  It  did  my  husband.  But  it  isn't  for  syke  folk  as  you 
and  yon  Pridgeon,  for  you  only  make  it  sound  like  badness. 
But  it's  no  use  speaking.  One  mud  as  well  tell  butcher 
to  cut  meat  wi'  less  bone.  It  diz  no  good. —  Shall  ye  be  back 
to  dinner  to-day  ?  " 

The  Doctor  said  he  did  not  know. 

"  There's  not  much  wonder  at  me  not  knowing,  then,"  said 
the  housekeeper.  "  But  if  there's  any  doubt  aboot  it,  it 
sounds  as  if  ye  would.  Ye  mostlins  stop  away  when  you've 
told  me  to  expect  ye." 

The  Doctor  promised  to  let  her  know  before  leaving  home, 
and  with  the  remark  that  she  knew  his  promises  of  old,  she 
left  him  to  his  solitude.  Scarcely  a  moment  later,  however, 
the  door  rattled  warningly  to  a  fresh  current  of  air,  and  the 
housekeeper  drew  again  into  the  room,  this  time  bearing  a 
letter. 

"  It's  not  fro'  your  cousin  George,"  she  said,  "  although  it's 
gotten  London  postmark.  But  you  needn't  fear  he'll  ever 
trouble  you  again,  now  he's  wed  a  rich  wife.  Nor  yet  fro' 
your  Aunt  Stembridge.  But  I  seem  to  know  writing,  how- 
ever." 

She  retired  to  the  door  slowly,  so  that  the  Doctor  might 
have  an  opportunity  to  open  the  letter  before  the  panels 
closed  on  her.  The  Doctor,  holding  the  envelope  momen- 
tarily before  contracted  brows,  with  the  look  of  one  in  whom 
perplexed  memory  had  been  similarly  stirred,  tore  open  the 
covering  and  drew  forth  the  sheets  contained  within.  Even 
as  he  did  so,  some  swift  understanding  ripped  the  veil  from 
perplexity;  a  quick  gray  whiteness  absorbed  the  tawny 
weathering  out  of  his  cheeks  and  brow,  and  the  lips  quiv- 
ered momentarily  asunder.  Almost  immediately  he  thrust 
the  contents  back  into  the  envelope  with  an  assumption  of 
indifference,  but  he  could  not  resist  a  rapid  glance  towards 


io  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

the  door  as  though  to  note  how  far  his  discomposure  had 
betrayed  him  to  the  housekeeper's  steely  eye.     She  met  the 
look,  and  read  its  shielded  secret  with  incredulous  surprise. 
"  She's  never  wrote  to  you!"  she  cried. 


II 

CHEAP  paper  scribbled  over  with  the  weakest  of  char- 
acters, as  though  tears  rather  than  ink  had  been  the 
fluid  for  their  inscription ;  tears  stained  with  the  iron  of  a 
life's  sorrow,  tracing  their  way  through  tremulous  words 
in  labored  tracks  across  the  crumpled  sheet.  The  very 
synonym,  this  letter,  of  wasted  cheeks  and  withered  lives. 
There  were  finger-marks  nipped  into  its  worn  tissue  like 
earthly  bruises,  and  the  page,  languid  as  a  sick  woman, 
drooped  in  the  Doctor's  fingers.  So  feeble  was  its  message 
that,  even  in  this  spacious  room,  with  the  sun  gilding  all 
the  bay  of  the  big  window,  the  Doctor  had  to  turn  on  his 
chair  and  hold  the  crumpled  sheet  to  the  light  —  whose 
oblique  flood  raised  the  creases  to  the  importance  of  low 
relief,  and  gave  them  a  legible  value  greater  than  the 
written  words.  The  letter  began  with  his  own  name, 
"  Humphrey,"  and  he  laid  it  down  as  though  it  had  been 
a  blow. 

Thirteen  years  of  suffering  rolled  away  as  though  they 
had  been  one  tear,  and  fell  upon  the  corpse  of  his  sorrow, 
wet  and  warm.  He  saw  himself  —  as  indeed  he  had  often 
seen  himself  during  this  slow  tide  of  years,  though  never 
since  the  first  dark  hours  with  such  a  keen  perception  — 
he  saw  himself  again  the  newcomer  in  this  big  house,  stranger 
to  him  now  in  its  divorced  familiarity  than  then,  when 
the  lungs  of  boyish  hope  had  inflated  it  from  base  to  attic, 
and  his  youthful  confidence  had  coursed  hot  through  its 
passages  like  blood.  It  came  back  to  him  as  he  sat  there 


12  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

how  they  had  entered  upon  the  glorious  new  life  in  this 
house,  he  and  the  dead  mother,  and  the  faithful  servant,  with 
the  zest  of  explorers  on  the  golden  coast  of  a  new  continent ; 
how  they  had  tasted  in  comradeship  all  the  good  fruits  of 
the  fresh  world;  had  mapped  out  their  unfamiliar  territory 
and  apportioned  its  possession;  had  drawn  up  laws  and  sub- 
scribed to  new  constitutions  with  the  zeal  of  pilgrim  fathers. 

This  morning  he  flinched  afresh  before  the  memory  of  that 
other  day  which  had  dawned  with  its  false  smile  of  beauty 
and  taught  him,  at  times,  to  hate  the  sunlight  and  blue  sky, 
and  all  bright  things  that  bear  messages  of  hope  and  joy. 
He  saw  renewed  the  dancing  characters  of  that  other  soul- 
mocking  letter;  the  figure  of  his  mother,  white  with  care, 
and  wet  with  tears  that  shook  on  pitying  lashes;  felt  again 
the  hot  tense  hands  upon  his  neck ;  the  cry  of  pity,  struggling 
in  its  own  throes  to  tend  the  cup  of  comfort. 

"  O,  Humphrey.     My  boy,  my  boy." 

Pride,  love,  ambition  and  hopes  —  all  struck  into  the  dust 
by  a  faithless  woman's  hand ;  the  gleaming  tower  dismantled 
like  a  dream ;  the  house  itself  —  that  had  been  a  veritable 
palace  of  sunlight  —  smitten  into  a  gray  bastile ;  sullen, 
remorseless,  frowning  round  its  prison  of  clay.  And  then, 
with  the  velocity  of  Fate,  that  second  blow  succeeding  the 
first,  robbing  him  of  the  one  prop  on  which  his  sorrow  rested. 
He  saw  again  the  white  calm  face  of  his  dead  mother  flush 
up  to  him  on  his  own  tears,  as  though  floating  on  a  celestial 
stream ;  and  he  dropped  his  hand  to  dash  away  with  a  gesture 
of  pain  and  bitterness  the  wet  sign  of  his  weakness. 

There  are  some  whom  grief  attenuates  and  spiritualizes ; 
whom  affliction  fines  away  to  the  pure  metal  of  their  best 
nature.  With  him,  he  knew  it,  it  had  been  otherwise.  He 
had  coarsened  his  fibers  deliberately  during  the  first  assault 
of  grief,  that  they  might  take  the  strain  of  their  heavy  bur- 
den. All  that  had  been  best  in  him  he  had  expressed  and  ex- 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  13 

cised.  He  had  conquered  the  siege  by  stern  measures ;  and, 
as  in  the  history  of  many  such  conquests,  the  rough  measures 
had  survived  the  hour  of  their  necessity.  His  own  deliverers 
became  his  victors  in  turn,  and  with  a  heart  hardened  now 
against  the  sight  of  his  nature's  despoliation,  he  had  aban- 
doned himself  to  the  weak  avoidance  of  his  sorrow.  Only 
one  thing,  perhaps,  had  saved  him  from  supreme  decay,  and 
that  was  his  joyless  obedience  to  the  dictates  of  his  profes- 
sion. Careless  of  himself,  he  had  never  admitted  the  cor- 
ruption of  carelessness  in  his  dealings  with  others.  When 
the  call  came,  he  rang  prompt  and  true  —  with  the  dulled 
voice  of  rusted  metal,  perhaps,  it  might  be;  but  he  fulfilled 
his  mission  without  grudge,  and  too  frequently  without  re- 
ward. 

Thus  carried  along  on  the  unchecked  tide  of  memory  he 
came  again  —  but  reluctantly,  as  it  seemed  —  to  view  the 
crumpled  instigator  of  his  thoughts,  and  took  up  the  letter 
and  composed  himself  to  read. 

"  One  who  wronged  you  very  deeply,  implores  you  now 
to  read  these  words  with  all  the  charity  in  your  heart,  for  by 
the  time  they  come  into  your  hands  she  will  be  beyond  the 
reach  of  mortal  love  or  hate." 

So,  with  the  brief  preliminary  of  his  name,  the  letter 
opened.  She  was  dead,  then,  the  authoress  of  all  his  harm ; 
the  one-time  laughing  spring  that  had  bubbled  into  his  life 
through  a  girl's  lips  and  darkened  and  deepened  and  broad- 
ened, fretting  its  bed  to  the  iron  deeps  of  his  being.  He 
winced  as  he  read  the  tidings,  for  her  death  drew  the  revenge 
out  of  his  bosom  like  a  sting.  Even  now  the  source  of  his 
unhappiness  was  merged  in  the  infinite  floods  of  destiny,  and 
he,  a  lonely  mortal,  left  without  a  sentient  object  for  his 
hate.  What  her  course  in  life  had  been  through  all  these 
years  he  had  not  known,  nor  sought  to  inquire.  Dimly  he 


14  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

had  supposed  her  —  like  most  offenders  —  in  perpetual  en- 
joyment of  the  fruits  of  her  evil,  and  had  indeed  sharpened 
the  weapons  of  his  fortitude  on  the  cruel  grindstone  of  her 
happiness.  And  now,  lo!  she  was  dead,  with  his  name  on 
her  lips.  Gone  down  to  the  grave  shrouded  in  supplication, 
and  the  white  linen  of  penitence. 

Written  at  many  times,  and  showing  in  its  altering  char- 
acters the  influence  of  many  moods  superimposed  by  slow 
stages  to  the  completion  of  its  purpose,  the  letter  led  the 
reading  man  through  a  life's  lane  of  suffering.  The  faithless 
red  lips  that  had  blown  his  soul  into  that  gay  prismatic 
bubble  of  ambition,  only  to  puff  it  forth  and  watch  its  aimless 
wanderings  with  cruel  indifference,  were  worn  and  wasted 
now  to  the  taste  of  bitter  tears  and  contrite  bread.  Along 
their  divided  destinies,  all  unknown  the  one  to  the  other, 
these  two  had  stumbled  in  parallel  tracks  of  suffering. 

If  ever  he  had  wished  her  evil,  she  told  him,  God  knows 
his  wish  had  borne  abundant  fruit.  Time  and  time  again 
during  all  these  sordid  years  she  had  eaten  the  meat  of 
remorse ;  had  yearned  to  tear  down  her  sin  and  all  its  infinite 
curtain  of  consequences  that  hung  between  them.  Often  in 
her  darker  hours  of  trouble  she  had  bitten  the  craven  fingers 
that  would  have  written  her  secret  to  him,  for  while  life  was 
in  her  she  had  vowed  never  to  cast  her  shadow  over  his  days 
again.  But  now,  with  death  and  all  death's  difficulties  before 
her,  when  no  taint  of  self  could  darken  the  spirit  of  her 
words,  she  had  dared  to  rise  in  front  of  him  once  more.  To 
none,  said  the  letter,  can  a  broken  heart  come  in  its  dying 
humility  with  better  hope  than  to  one  whom  in  life  it  has 
deeply  injured.  "  To  you,  Humphrey,  by  the  remembrance 
of  the  ill  I  did  you,  I  pray  —  in  the  near  sight  of  God  — 
that  you  will  not  refuse  this  last  act  of  mercy  to  a  dead  un- 
worthy woman." 

Then,  laboriously,  the  letter  unfolded  the  story  of  the  life 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  15 

that  had  succeeded  upon  her  desertion  of  him.  Almost  be- 
fore that  guilty  honeymoon  was  on  its  wane,  the  man  for 
whom  she  had  broken  every  tie,  pledged  every  trinket  of 
scruple  or  honor  to  minister  to  his  evil  pride,  entered  upon 
his  campaign  of  cruelty  and  wrong.  Within  three  years  of 
their  ill-blest  union  he  had  passed  out  of  her  life  through  the 
prison  dock,  and  since  that  time  she  had  struggled  against 
the  adverse  current  of  the  world  —  not  for  her  own  sake,  for 
often  she  had  coveted  and  prayed  for  sleep,  but  for  the  sake 
of  her  purer,  dearer  self,  the  girl  child  in  whom  the  last 
savings  of  her  heart  had  been  invested,  who  had  made  the 
struggle  harder  and  still  more  bitter  sweet,  and  who  alone 
lent  terrors  to  the  dark  gateway  through  which  the  tide  was 
hurrying  her  fast.  Now  with  a  mother's  love  that  triumphed 
over  every  obstacle  of  pride  or  shame,  and  with  an  eloquence 
borrowed  of  death  in  her  supreme  hour,  she  begged  this 
injured  man  to  receive  the  fragrant  blossom  of  her  dishonor. 
Those  wasted  fingers  guided  a  pen  that  had  been  dipped  in 
the  corrosive  fluid  of  experience,  and  it  pictured,  with  terrible 
fidelity,  the  living  shadows  gathering  round  her  child  as  her 
own  night  drew  on  apace.  She  had  hoped  and  prayed  for 
the  few  more  years  of  toil  and  guardianship  that  might  have 
left  her  daughter  with  a  better  dowry  of  wisdom  for  the 
fighting  of  a  girl's  battle,  but  it  was  not  to  be.  Out  of  her 
scanty  earnings,  eked  meagerly  even  now  upon  the  harvest- 
field  of  death,  she  had  been  barely  able  to  make  the  last 
provision  for  her  erring  clay,  that  should  spare  her  child  the 
cruel  extremity  of  shedding  tears  upon  a  pauper's  grave. 
But  thus  much,  by  mortgages  upon  her  own  failing  flesh,  she 
had  accomplished.  Thereafter,  when  her  body  should  be 
committed  to  the  soil,  and  all  these  years  of  suffering  and 
these  latter  moments  of  horror  stroked  out  in  sleep,  God 
alone  knew  whose  hand  would  shield  her  child.  And  she 
asked  this  man  —  whose  lips  hardened,  and  on  whose  brow 


16  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

the  clouds  descended  as  he  read  —  to  take  the  child  from  the 
mirk  of  the  town,  that  corrupting  network  of  influences. 
Take  her  away  to  the  country,  where  at  least  there  was 
God's  blue  sky  and  clean  air  for  her  lungs,  and  honest  labor 
of  the  arduous  sort,  perhaps,  for  her  willing  hands,  where,  if 
God  would  so  move  him,  he  might  watch  over  her  and  shield 
her  —  for  a  while,  at  least  —  from  the  burden  of  the  storm. 
Already  —  she  begged  his  forgiveness  for  this  courage  of  a 
dying  woman  —  she  had  committed  some  breath  of  him  to 
the  child;  had  spoken  of  a  dearly-loved  cousin  whose  favor 
had  been  forfeited  on  her  part  by  an  act  of  wickedness 
and  ingratitude;  a  remote  generous-hearted  man  whom  her 
death  might  soften  to  forgiveness  for  her  daughter's  sake. 
She  had  pledged  the  child  to  consign  this  letter  to  the  post 
with  her  own  hand  as  soon  as  the  breath  had  left  her  mother's 
body.  It  was  the  supreme  desperate  effort  of  a  stricken 
soul,  for  she  told  him  how  almost  her  last  journey  through 
the  streets  of  life  had  been  to  the  great  dim  library,  where, 
with  a  beating  heart,  her  faltering  finger  had  traced  his 
familiar  name  in  the  dusty  directory,  and  learned  that  he 
was  still  in  the  spot  where  she  had  sent  him  such  a  different 
message  all  those  years  ago.  Now  she  was  dying  with  her 
hopes  and  prayers  fixed  upon  him.  There  was  a  folded 
envelope  enclosed,  stamped  and  addressed  with  most  punctil- 
ious care.  If  his  heart  were  moved,  he  was  to  place  his 
sanction  within  this,  and  dispatch  it  with  the  least  delay  to 
the  address  given.  And  as  she  feared  her  child  would  be 
left  with  scarce  the  wherewithal  to  reach  him  in  his  far 
home,  she  begged  —  with  even  more  show  of  profusion  in 
penitence  for  this  smaller  petition  than  had  seemed  apparent, 
to  his  eye,  in  the  larger  —  that  he  would  advance  a  sum 
sufficient  to  meet  the  journey.  For  all  this  —  if  indeed  he 
yielded  any  part  of  it  —  she  looked  to  God  to  repay  him,  as 
He  would  surely  do. 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  17 

Much  more,  indeed,  the  letter  contained,  for  it  treasured 
the  hopes  and  fears  of  weeks.  Now  assurance  strengthened 
her  hand.  Prayer  and  ascription,  supplication  and  despair 
marked  each  alternating  paragraph.  There  were  postscripts 
—  for  even  at  the  hour  of  death  a  woman  finds  some  one  last 
thing  to  say.  Here,  for  instance,  she  confided  her  daughter's 
name  —  Jane  —  with  a  little  breath  of  remorse  and  disap- 
pointment. It  had  been  given,  she  explained,  in  the  first  bit- 
terness of  her  trouble,  when,  with  the  taste  of  her  own  down- 
fall in  her  teeth,  she  had  striven  to  shield  her  child  even  from 
the  worldly  influence  of  baptismal  vanity.  So  in  her  anxiety 
she  had  chosen  a  good,  useful  name,  without  pretensions, 
or  the  covert  aspiration  to  beauty  that  wrecked  so  many 
daughters'  lives.  A  plain  name  for  hard  wear  and  tear  in  a 
struggling  world,  and  one  unlikely  (she  had  thought  at  the 
time)  to  sow  the  seeds  of  vanity  or  folly.  There  was  a  sigh 
(it  seemed)  following  this  tender  leading  of  the  name  by 
hand,  as  though  her  consolation  were  mingled  with  regret. 

"  After  all,"  she  added,  "  there  is  no  reason  why  it  should 
not  be  as  pretty  a  name  as  any  other.  I  suspect  the  feeling 
comes  through  prejudice.  But  the  name  is  very  dear  to  me 
now.  God  knows  how  I  dread  to  lose  it."  In  another  place 
she  put  pen  to  paper  to  assure  him  that  if  he  could  only  see 
her  now  he  would  shed  all  feeling  of  anger  for  the  past. 

"  My  hair  is  nearly  gray,  and  terribly  thin.  If  I  lived, 
there  would  be  none  of  it  left,  I  fear.  Jane  has  a  glorious 
headful." 

Still  again  she  adds  a  line  touching  the  cause  of  all  her 
courage  and  apprehensions.  "  I  would  die  gladly,  but  for 
her.  She  is,  I  think,  very  like  what  I  must  have  been  as  a 
child,  before  you  knew  me.  Thank  God,  I  find  very  little  of 
her  father  in  her,  though  at  times,  in  my  trouble,  I  have 
trembled  to  believe  that  he  was  slowly  creeping  out  in  little 
ways  of  temper  and  of  expression.  But  God  bless  her  and 
watch  over  her  when  I  am  gone.  She  is  my  very  heart." 


Ill 

WITH  a  strange  set  face  that  followed  much  perusal, 
the  Doctor  put  back  the  letter.  If  the  dead  woman 
could  have  witnessed  then  the  hard  mouth  and  darkened 
brow  that  aged  him,  she  might  have  shivered  in  her  grave 
for  what  it  boded  to  her  hopes. 

For  Memory,  like  a  wind,  rose  out  of  the  stricken  past 
and  blew  commotion  over  the  wasted  places  of  the  Doctor's 
heart.  First,  betokening  the  coming  storm,  there  had  fallen 
a  flatness  upon  him ;  a  period  of  pity,  a  sense  of  melancholy 
loneliness  in  life.  He  had  pondered  the  strange  mutability 
of  it  all ;  had  said  to  himself,  "  Dead ;  dead,"  turning  the 
word  over  and  over  in  his  mind  like  some  strange  coin  with 
unfamiliar  superscription.  Again  and  again  the  wind  of 
memory  blew  across  his  mind  as  he  read,  scattering  the  sense 
of  the  woman's  words,  so  that  he  had  needs  hark  back  with 
a  new  resolution  for  understanding;  the  phrases  slipping 
through  his  slack  intelligence  like  a  cable  through  chill 
ringers.  And  after  this  ensued  a  stir  of  pride;  a  sense  of 
exultant  magnanimity  to  think  his  injured  heart  had  been 
made  the  haven  of  this  woman's  hope. 

But  to  this  pride  in  turn  succeeded  wrath.  She  could 
come  to  him  now,  said  he,  to  lay  on  him  the  brunt  of  her 
offending.  The  letter  was  but  another  token  of  the  con- 
tempt which  had  caused  her  desertion  of  him  all  those  years 
ago.  It  was  a  missive  of  effrontery  aimed  at  a  fool's  heart ; 
an  appeal  to  a  weak  nature  whose  only  function  was  the 
forgiving  of  offenses.  The  penitential  words,  the  tearful 
ascriptions  to  his  goodness,  the  constant  invocation  of  the 

18 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  19 

shadow  of  death,  were  but  cunningly  set  teeth  in  the  saw  of 
the  woman's  purpose.  Here  was  a  weapon,  she  had  prided 
herself,  to  cut  through  his  resistance ;  a  tool  to  rend  the 
bones  of  his  resolve.  But  he  would  be  above  her  conciliation 
as  he  had  been  above  her  treachery.  He  would  admit  no 
supplicants  with  their  hostages  for  the  guilty  past.  The 
gates  of  his  heart  should  be  shut  and  barred. 

All  that  day  he  was  at  war  with  himself.  The  letter  lay 
hot  in  the  pocket  against  his  breast,  a  seat  of  discord  and 
divergence,  as  he  drove  about  the  countryside ;  now  making 
the  mare's  shoes  ring  against  the  sunbaked  road  in  a  futile 
essay  to  outpace  trouble ;  anon  succumbing  to  the  weight  of 
it,  and  letting  the  winded  animal  blow  the  dust  off  the  road 
with  protesting  trumpets  from  her  outcurled  nostrils  as  she 
lagged  to  a  slack  rein.  No  letter  nor  money  of  his  sending 
should  bridge  over  the  gulf  of  treachery  or  of  time.  There 
were  houses  built  with  the  nation's  money  for  the  sheltering 
of  the  children  of  wickedness  or  misfortune.  Let  the  child 
of  this  woman,  who  had  injured  him  in  the  past,  eat  the 
same  bread  and  no  better  than  the  children  of  those  who  had 
done  him  no  wrong.  And  all  the  while,  despite  this  bluster 
of  resistance  and  repudiation,  the  small  keen  voice  that 
never  deceives  kept  crying  out  in  his  ear :  "  She  will  come. 
She  will  come.  You  know  it.  She  will  come.  It  is  written 
on  the  scroll  of  fate.  It  is  the  consummation  of  your  destiny, 
just  as  was  her  mother's  sin.  You  will  write  the  letter.  You 
will  send  the  money." 

"  I  won't  have  her ! "  cried  the  Doctor.  "  I  won't  be 
fooled." 

"  There's  a  storm  brewin'  over  yonder,"  said  the  Sunfleet 
miller  with  a  wink,  as  he  watched  the  inert  figure  shake 
soullessly  to  the  oscillations  of  the  ancient  buggy. 

"  Aye,  I'se  think  we  shall  be  getting  a  change  noo,"  as- 
sented old  Stebbing  the  roadmender,  who  was  always  willing 


20  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

to  rest  his  hammer  for  the  study  or  discussion  of  his  fellow- 
men,  and  who  was  said  to  wear  his  smoked  eye-protectors 
so  that  no  mortal  could  know  for  certain  whether  he  was 
awake  or  asleep;  the  legend  running  that  he  had  acquired 
the  gift  of  slumber  while  he  worked,  as  a  horse  rests  in 
harness.  "  Doctor  looked  at  me  strangelins  hard  yesterday 
mornin',  as  though  he  didn't  rightly  know  me  —  and  him  and 
me  reckons  to  be  good  friends.  He  nivver  turned  his  head 
yance  to-day." 

"  Why,  it'll  be  aboot  his  time  and  all,"  subscribed  Farmer 
Medling.  "  It's  aboon  a  fortnight  sin'  he  called  out  to  me 
across  yon  nine-acre,  and  he's  been  deaf  and  dumb  ever  sin'." 

"  I  heard  tell  o'  Teddy  Pridgeon  being  wi'  him  last  neet, 
while  a  bit  before  three  ti-morn,"  said  the  carrier.  "  My 
wod!  That's  road  to  doctor  folk,  you  may  depend.  Doc- 
torin's  like  all  other  trades  i'  these  days,  I  think.  It  looks 
like  getting  warse  i'stead  o'  better." 

The  Doctor  did  not  return  to  dinner.  Report  —  which  in 
these  visual  matters  is  generally  correct  —  announced  him  at 
Kenham  Beach,  where  the  landlord  of  the  Mariner's  Leg 
suffered  from  bronchitis,  a  complaint  whose  crises  synchro- 
nized peculiarly  with  the  Doctor's  moods.  There  he  baited 
the  mare,  and  sat  down  with  the  landlord  in  the  bar  kitchen, 
though  he  had  few  words  to  say.  Report  mentioned  that, 
just  before  mounting  the  buggy  again,  he  asked  the  landlord 
for  a  sheet  of  paper  and  a  pen,  as  he  had  a  letter  to  write. 
The  landlord  declared  himself  sure  there  must  be  a  sheet  of 
notepaper  somewhere  in  the  house,  and  he  remembered 
lending  the  pen  to  the  Spraith  lighthouse-keeper  not  a  month 
before.  He  had,  however,  some  apparent  difficulty  in  pro- 
ducing either,  and  the  Doctor,  exhibiting  small  patience  with 
the  protracted  search,  said  "  No  matter,  no  matter,"  and 
took  a  hurried  departure. 

He  put  the  question,  later,  to  the  landlord  of  the  Gander 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  21 

at  Peterwick  —  who  was  said  to  have  a  standing  complaint 
in  his  inside,  and  no  wonder,  in  view  of  all  the  mixed  quan- 
tities he  gave  it  to  drink  —  and  the  landlord  of  the  Gander 
fetched  both  out  of  his  youngest  daughter's  work-box,  and 
asked  the  Doctor  whether  he  would  go  into  the  parlor  or 
write  where  he  was.  The  Doctor  said  he  would  write  where 
he  was,  and  then  went  into  the  parlor,  where  he  stayed  nearly 
half-an-hour.  At  the  Peterwick  Post  Office  he  bought  a 
money  order  for  four  pounds,  and  having  registered  the  let- 
ter that  contained  it,  mounted  the  tilting  buggy  and  rocked 
homeward  in  the  sinking  sunlight  with  a  deeper  chin  than 
before.  Much  later  in  the  evening,  when  the  housekeeper 
brought  the  uplifted  lamp  to  the  room  where  the  Doctor  had 
been  treading  the  worn  carpet  roses  underfoot  through  many 
a  drear  perambulation,  he  turned  suddenly  upon  her  with  a 
faint  flush  surmounting  his  cheeks,  and  said  — 

"  I  suppose  you  may  as  well  know  it  now,  Anne." 

The  housekeeper  looked  up  with  crimped  eyes  through  the 
interceptive  lamplight,  and  gave  vent  to  an  inquiry.  "  What's 
amiss  noo?  " 

He  restated  his  formula.  "  I've  had  bad  news  this  morn- 
ing." 

"  Bad  news !  "  exclaimed  the  housekeeper.  "  Ye  mud  'a 
knowed  it  wouldn't  be  good.  Good  news  dizn't  come  tiv  a 
spot  like  this,  and  no  wonder  —  syke  hours  as  we  keep." 

"  I've  heard,"  said  the  Doctor,  without  looking  at  her, 
"  that  a  married  cousin  of  mine  is  just  dead."  He  put  his 
hand  to  his  temple.  "  In  rather  bad  circumstances.  They 
are  looking  to  me  to  —  to  do  something.  She  leaves  a 
daughter  quite  unprovided  for.  I  cannot  see  her  starve." 

The  eye  of  the  housekeeper  burned  upon  him  more  globu- 
lar and  illuminative  than  the  lamp.  His  glance  shrunk  un- 
der the  look. 

"  Which  cousin  is  it  ?  "  she  asked. 


22  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

"  Not  one  that  you  know  anything  about,  Anne." 

"  I  know  all  there  is.  So  you've  n'  occasion  to  try  and  put 
me  off.  Is  it  Ada?" 

The  Doctor  said  no. 

"  Nay.  I  thought  it  wouldn't  be  Ada,"  the  housekeeper 
decided.  "  It  dizn't  sound  like  her  to  gan,  so  long  as  she 
can  bide  i'  onnybody's  road,  and  make  mischief.  She  was 
always  a  selfish  creature.  I  expect  it'll  be  Mary.  She  was 
as  good  as  any.  I  won't  say  '  best,'  for  there  wasn't  a  best 
among  'em."  She  read  the  failure  of  her  second  surmise  in 
the  Doctor's  countenance,  and  substituted,  "  Or  Agatha.  She 
coughed  strangelins  as  a  bairn  —  though  half  of  it  was  pas- 
sion. I'se  often  bid  her  be  still." 

"  This  is  only  a  half-cousin,"  the  Doctor  explained  hur- 
riedly. "  But  that's  not  really  the  point.  .  .  .  They've 
written  to  me  to  tell  me,  and  —  well!  we  may  have  to  take 
the  girl  in  here,  Anne.  At  least,  for  a  short  time." 

"  Here  ?  "  repeated  the  housekeeper.  "  Are  you  i'  your 
senses  ?  A  lass !  How  old  will  she  be  ?  " 

"  I  scarcely  know.  Perhaps  —  perhaps  twelve  or  so.  A 
child,  I  believe." 

"  And  you  talk  o'  bringing  her  tiv  a  spot  like  this  ?  Wi' 
folk  gannin'  to  bed  at  three  i'  the  morning,  and  yon 
Pridgeon  telling  tales  i'  yon  room  that  he  ought  to  be  ashamed 
on,  and  you  and  all  for  listening  tiv  'em.  Aye!  I'se  blushed 
many  a  time  and  come  out  to  cough  in  yon  hall  —  as  often  as 
three  times  of  a  night.  It's  a  mercy  I've  been  a  married 
woman,  wi'  a  husband  o'  my  own  —  though  it  was  a  long  time 
before  I  made  up  my  mind  to  take  him,  but  I've  thanked 
providence  since.  And  what  would  happen  wi'  a  bairn  listen- 
ing about  place  ?  It's  shocking  to  think  on."  She  wiped  her 
hands  emphatically  on  her  apron.  "  No.  She'll  'a  to  gan 
and  live  wi'  your  cousin  George,"  she  said,  with  a  fine  air 
of  conclusion.  "  Not  that  I  think  anything  about  his  wife, 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  23 

for  I  don't.  She  wears  ower  small  boots  for  my  fancy, 
and  shuts  her  eyes  when  she  talks  as  though  it  gied  her  a 
pain  i'  the  back  to  speak  to  syke  folks  as  us.  But  she  can 
afford  to  take  lass  a  deal  better  than  us.  Let  bairn  gan  tiv 
her.  She'll  grudge  her  every  bite  she  eats,  but  what  by 
that?" 

The  Doctor's  brow  contracted. 

"  I  would  not  write  and  ask  her,  Anne,"  he  said  firmly. 

"  Nor  there's  no  need,"  said  the  housekeeper.  "  Let  them 
write  and  ask  her  that  wrote  and  asked  you.  Who  are 
they,  do  you  say  ?  " 

The  flush  rose  again  over  the  Doctor's  cheeks. 

"  They  are  friends,"  he  said,  and  plucked  decision  sud- 
denly, as  though  it  were  a  bud.  "  Besides  .  .  .  it's  no 
use,  Anne.  My  mind  is  made  up,  and  I  have  written  the 
letter  already.  The  girl  must  come  here." 

The  housekeeper  crossed  eyes  with  him  for  some  seconds, 
and  something  seemed  to  blow  about  her  lips.  Not  a  smile, 
but  a  kind  of  exultation. 

"  Aye,  I  know  who  it  was  wrote  to  you  this  morning,"  she 
said. 

"  I  don't  want  to  discuss  it  with  you,  Anne." 

"  Aye,  but  I  know  very  well,  wi'oot  discussing.  It  was 
fro'  Hilda  Brennan." 

"  How  dare  you  ?  I  forbade  you  ever  to  use  that  name 
to  me." 

"  I  dare  very  well.  And  I'll  tell  you  another  thing.  It's 
Hilda  Brennan's  bairn.  Wi'  your  cousins  and  syke  like! 
Deny  it  if  you  can." 

"  You  are  a  damned  old  fool,  Anne." 


IV 

PETERWICK  Station,  secluded  in  the  silent  hollow  of 
Peterwick  town,  where  the  trains  puff  six  times  before 
the  first  white  sphere  of  expanding  vapor  rises  into  sight 
against  the  blue  sky  and  the  dark  fringe  of  Greenston  woods 

—  why  has  no  poet  of  our  time  distilled  its  peace  in  clarid 
verse,  or  crystallized  its  calm  in  placid  stanza?     When  the 
great  trains  are  gone,  and  the  iron-bound  gates  clash  to- 
gether, the  station  lies  an  inclosed  area  of  peace,  like  an 
allotment  of  beatitude  staked  off  by  its  criss-cross  creasoted 
palings  from  the  troublesome  assaults  of  the  outer  world. 
There  is  a  peace  here  in  sunlit  hours  that  even  the  dim 
shade  of  the  cloister  cannot  give.     Those  lissome  bands  of 
steel,  gleaming  under  a  blue  sky,  encircle  the  calm  soil  like 
a  fillet,  binding  its  brows  to  tranquillity  and  devotion.     Un- 
shaken by  the  thunderous  surge  of  metal  and  the  fevered 
throb  of  the  locomotive's  breast,  they  stir  the  mind  less  to 
thoughts  of  motion  than  to  thoughts  of  peace.     For  there 
is  no  peace  so  profound  as  that  which  falls  upon  areas  of 
movement  and  motion  when  they  take  their  slumber. 

Three  days  after  the  Doctor  had  sat  at  breakfast  with 
the  dead  woman's  script,  Peterwick  station  began  to  prepare 
by  all  its  familiar  ritual  for  the  consummation  of  the  six 
o'clock  train,  bathed  in  the  benedictory  light  of  a  setting 
August  sun.  Beyond  the  beatific  gates  of  drab  stood  Cob- 
ham's  'bus,  that  links  Beachington  and  Sunfleet  and  the  scat- 
tered intervening  hamlets  with  the  civilizing  forces  of  steam 

—  a  portable  rival  to  the  station  itself  —  drinking  the  golden 
sunlight  through  its  yards  of  window  and  thirsty  door  like 

24 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  25 

yellow  wine,  till  its  inside  was  saturated  and  gorgeous  with 
the  golden  vintage ;  and  the  dim  plush  cushions  glowed  with 
rejuvenated  crimson  in  the  engulfed  light.  Cobham  himself 
lay  back  on  the  box-seat  in  an  attitude  of  soulful  surrender, 
his  hat  tilted  over  his  brow,  a  pipe  indicating  the  placidity 
of  his  breathings  by  a  rhythmic  waft  of  blue  incense  that 
curled  no  higher  than  the  'bus  top  before  it  became  gold  too, 
in  turn,  and  incorporated  itself  invisibly  with  the  fine  par- 
ticles of  sunlight  suspended  everywhere  in  the  air  like  pow- 
der. One  of  Cobham's  legs  reposed  over  the  ample  area  of 
unoccupied  box-seat,  with  a  negligent  boot  extending  beyond 
the  rail  as  sole  token  of  him  to  pedestrians  on  the  footpath 
side.  Children  from  Peterwick,  long-  released  from  the 
buzzing  imprisonment  of  school,  swarmed  up  and  down  the 
swart  bars  of  the  crossing  gates.  There,  too,  was  old  Majent 
on  his  two  crabbed  sticks,  with  his  accordion-pleated  legs 
united  to  the  soil  a  yard  and  a  half  in  the  rear,  and  his  back 
sloping  downwards  to  meet  them  as  though  he  were  a  giraffe, 
come  to  see  the  Hunmouth  train  as  usual,  and  staring  at  the 
ribbed  gates  with  his  mouth  open  and  his  chin  on  his  cord 
waistcoat,  in  his  unalterable  stare  of  absorption. 

The  station-master  had  already  laid  down  his  pipe  and 
exchanged  his  white  canvas  hat  of  privacy  and  spare  mo- 
ments for  the  official  headgear  of  gold  braid  and  intertwisted 
monogram ;  the  signalman  had  already  embraced  his  levers 
and  blown  a  shrill  prelude  on  his  pea-whistle ;  Jarge  Stebbing 
had  rushed  out  from  his  secret  lurking-place  in  his  customary 
hurry  with  the  brass  bell  held  by  tongue  and  handle  in  the 
hollow  of  his  flabby  green  waistcoat,  and  riven  the  golden 
air  with  ring-a-dings  as  though  the  very  sunlight  were  brass 
and  he  was  basting  it,  when  the  Doctor's  buggy,  giving  in  at 
the  springs  to  each  inequality  of  the  road,  like  a  lady  with 
weak  ankles,  crept  up  to  the  gate  and  came  to  an  eventual 
mooring  in  the  shadow  of  the  sun-filled  'bus.  The  ancient 


26  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

groom  let  himself  creakily  down  from  the  buggy  with  la- 
borious care. 

"  Noo  then,  Major ! "  cried  Cobham,  raising  his  head 
above  the  'bus  in  amicable  interest.  "  I  thought  you  was 
dead." 

The  old  groom,  absorbed  in  an  intricate  disposal  of  the 
reins,  and  holding  them  a  yard  apart  under  dull  comparison 
as  though  he  found  difficulty  in  recalling  the  formula  for 
their  arrangement,  repeated  the  word  "  Dead  "  in  a  wheezy 
voice,  part  contemptuous,  part  irritable. 

"  I  mud  very  well  be  dead  and  all,"  he  vouchsafed,  "  if 
everybody  had  their  way.  There's  ower  many  masters  i'  the 
world,  you  may  depend." 

"  And  what  brings  you  to  Peterwick  ?  "  inquired  Cobham. 

"What  brings  me?"  retorted  the  groom,  with  a  half-way 
voice  of  complaining  that  suggested  he  would  not  need  much 
encouragement  to  unload  a  cargo  of  aged  woes.  "  Nowt  o' 
my  own  inclination,  you  may  depend.  I  never  cared  a  deal 
for  Peterwick  at  onny  time,  but  I  like  it  no  better  to-day." 

"  Doctor  won't  be  coming  by  this  train,  will  he  ?  " 

"  Doctor  ?  "  The  old  groom  had  acquired  a  way,  begotten 
doubtless  of  much  brooding,  of  taking  up  the  salient  word 
of  his  interlocutor's  phrase,  and  turning  it  over  with  a  kind 
of  critical  displeasure  —  as  though  he  were  trying  on  caps, 
and  none  would  fit  him.  Indeed,  it  would  have  needed  a 
large-size  cap  to  fit  the  head  of  his  complaining.  "  Nobbut 
it  was  only  Doctor,"  he  decided,  "  I  could  bide  it  better  — 
though  he'd  do  a  deal  sensibler  to  ride  back  wi'  you,  i'  'bus, 
like  onnybody  else.  But  I'se  telt  it's  a  lass  Fse  got  to  meet. 
A  niece  or  summut  o'  Doctor's,  I  understan' —  though  there's 
not  much  understannin'  owt  at  yon  spot.  It's  all  '  Do  this,' 
and  *  Do  that,'  wi'oot  no  whys  nor  wherefores.  Aye,  an' 
yon  aud  woman's  as  bad  as  him." 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  27 

"  A  niece  o'  Doctor's  ?  "  interrogated  Cobham.  "  Why, 
what  sort  of  a  lass  will  she  be?  " 

"What  sort  of  a  lass?"  repeated  the  groom  angrily. 
"  Why,  what  sort  of  a  lass  is  onny  lass?  They're  nowt  but 
fondness  at  best  o'  time.  But  Fse  gotten  to  look  out  for  a 
lass  wi  a  black  hat  and  skirt  —  though  Doctor  knows  very 
well  my  sight  isn't  what  it  was,  and  he  mud  'a  done  a  deal 
better  to  come  hissen." 

The  'bus  proprietor  was  about  to  ply  the  groom  with 
further  interrogation  when  his  ear  caught  the  distant  sound 
of  panting  steam  and  clangorous  mechanism. 

"  Here  she  comes !  "  he  cried,  and  woke  to  activity  as  the 
train  bore  down  upon  the  little  station. 

"  You'll  gie  a  look  out,"  quavered  the  old  groom,  "  if  you 
see  onny  lass  i'  black,  wi'  a  box  or  two.  I  don't  want  to  miss 
her  —  and  have  to  come  again.  An'  just  gie  a  look  to  aud 
mare,  will  you,"  he  added,  with  a  troubled  glance  backward. 
"  I  think  she'll  stand,  but  it's  a  long  while  sin'  I  had  her  at 
station." 

The  groom's  excitement,  fired  by  responsibility,  kept  him 
perpetually  animated  with  the  blood  of  ire,  until  the  little 
knot  of  passengers  trickled  out  in  front  of  the  panting  green 
engine,  and  traversed  the  far  crossing  to  the  Peterwick  side 
of  the  station.  A  girl's  figure,  at  some  distance  of  separa- 
tion, completed  the  line  of  people  picking  their  way  over  the 
metals,  and  Jarge  Stebbing  brought  up  the  rear  with  his 
luggage-laden  barrow. 

"  Yon's  her,"  said  Cobham,  marking  her  transit  with  an 
interested  finger. 

"Wheer?"  cried  the  groom,  whose  eye,  through  much 
anxiety,  was  no  longer  an  organ  of  precision  or  reliability. 
"  I  can't  see  nowt  but  steam.  Gor  bless  it.  Point  her  oot 
again,  George.  Div  ye  want  me  to  miss  her?  Aye!  Noo 


28  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

I  see.  She's  been  there  all  this  time,  you  may  depend  while 
I'se  been  blinding  mysen  very  near  to  get  a  look  at  her. 
And  she's  not  stirring  of  hersen  extry,  even  noo." 

The  passengers  filtered  slowly  through  the  gate  to  where 
George  Cobham  was  busying  himself  with  baskets,  and 
instituting  the  preliminaries  of  storage  and  disposal  for  the 
'bus's  departure.  Last  of  all,  still  at  her  distance,  following 
the  human  current,  but  holding  herself  diffidently  from  con- 
tact with  its  human  integers  —  walking  in  whatever  direc- 
tion, it  seemed,  with  a  sort  of  shrinkage,  as  though  yet 
unsure  of  the  elements  of  this  new  world  with  which  she 
must  now  mingle,  came  the  girl  herself.  She  was  clad  in 
mourning  of  a  deepness  that  branded  it  recent,  but  of  a 
meager  simplicity  that  showed  this  bereavement  had  assailed 
the  pocket  no  less  than  the  heart.  The  shoes,  where  Care 
ever  scribbles  his  signature  most  legibly,  were  used  and  in- 
substantial ;  and  the  girl's  gloves  were  frail  and  cheap. 
Clasping  a  black-bordered  handkerchief  in  her  left  hand, 
whose  close  compression  seemed  to  intimate  that  it  had  but 
recently  been  moistened  with  tears,  the  girl  followed  timor- 
ously the  lead  of  the  energetic  Jarge;  gazing  out  of  a  pair 
of  humid  and  very  blue  shrinking  eyes,  fringed  with  deep 
dark  lashes  that  seemed  to  try  and  shut  out  what  necessity 
made  them  see.  Her  brow  and  cheeks  —  the  latter  very 
obviously  wet  with  surreptitious  weeping  —  were  pallid ;  and 
her  lips,  in  whose  corners  lurked  a  spasmodic  quiver,  were 
locked  together,  gray  and  dry.  With  the  cascade  of  light 
auburn  hair  that  fell  loose  upon  her  shoulders,  and  gleamed 
in  the  sun  with  golden  filaments  against  her  somber  dress, 
she  might  have  made  pretensions  to  girlish  beauty,  but  the 
face  was  too  bleached  and  careworn.  All  the  features,  except 
those  blue  eyes,  were  effaced  and  obliterated  in  a  gray  diffu- 
sion of  distress. 

"  Noo  then,  aud  stiff-legs,"  cried  Jarge  Stebbing  uncere- 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  29 

moniously,  letting  down  the  barrow  with  a  bang,  and  hailing 
the  irresolute  figure  of  the  old  groom,  "  get  yon  cart  turned 
wi'  you,  and  sharp!  I'se  gotten  a  lass  and  two  boxes  for 
Dr.  Bentham." 


WHILE  the  shrinking  girl  and  the  grim-visaged  groom 
drove  slowly  along  the  road  in  the  dusty  wake  of 
the  Beachington  'bus,  that  rolled  upward  from  its  lumber- 
ing wheels  like  choirs  of  chubby  cherubim  in  flight  to  heaven, 
and  floated  over  the  sleeping  hedgerows  of  hawthorn  and 
bramble,  the  Doctor  brooded,  a  very  incarnation  of  the  dusk, 
in  his  lonely  big  room  at  Sunfleet.  The  sun  was  fast  spin- 
ning away  from  his  day's  communion  with  the  bay  window, 
and  being  enmeshed  in  the  web-work  of  branches  that  con- 
stituted the  western  shelter  of  the  house.  One  vivid  gold 
streak  on  the  far  wall  turned  to  crimson  while  the  Doctor 
waited  —  incorporating  his  substance  with  the  surrounding 
shadows  —  as  though  the  last  spent  forces  of  the  day  were 
being  wrung  out  in  blood.  The  stain  faded  to  a  blurred  pink 
and  shifted  silently  off  the  sash,  leaving  the  room  the  darker. 
It  seemed,  with  its  passage,  as  though  the  room  had  sighed 
to  a  deeper  note  of  solitude,  and  the  darkness  sank  apace, 
for  the  great  trees  and  the  close  shrubs  strangled  all  but 
the  fiercer  rays  of  light.  Filtered  through  a  thousand  leaves, 
the  gloom  thickened  like  the  syrupy  illumination  streaming 
over  some  church  chancel  through  sieves  of  tinctured  glass. 
The  Doctor,  sometimes  merged  in  the  far  darkness  of  the 
room,  sometimes  stealing  silently  to  and  fro  and  kindling  his 
profile  against  the  dying  window-glow,  listened  now  and  again 
by  the  open  sash,  or  with  his  face  towards  the  door,  for  the 
first  signs  of  crunching  gravel  or  internal  movement  that 
should  betide  the  nearing  change.  Ever  since  the  receipt  of 
that  faded  script,  the  trees  of  ghostly  memory  had  been  f ret- 

30 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  31 

ting  their  leaves  and  wringing  their  branches  round  his  se- 
cluded being ;  and  his  mind  had  woven  many  restless  wander- 
ings by  day  and  night.  He  had  opened,  so  he  told  himself, 
the  gates  of  mercy,  but  not  the  gates  of  forgiveness  or  love. 
Like  a  grudging  toll-keeper,  awakened  by  the  summons  of 
memory  against  his  will,  he  had  come  out  swinging  the  dim 
lantern  of  duty  to  give  passage  to  this  childish  wayfarer 
along  the  great  high  road,  but  he  would  yield  her  no  entry 
to  his  own  bosom  or  home.  The  bread  of  mercy  should  be 
broken  to  appease  the  hunger  of  his  own  conscience,  but  they 
should  eat  as  strangers  at  the  board  of  charity,  these  two, 
and  should  part,  after  the  meal,  the  children  of  conscience, 
not  of  love.  For  he  was  doing  this  at  the  sepulcher  of  all 
that  had  been  best  in  him ;  it  was  no  sacrament  to  living 
flesh  and  blood. 

Each  hour  of  attendance  strengthened  his  desire  to  ex- 
pedite the  girl's  passage  through  his  life,  and  make  her  stay 
under  this  roof  as  transient  as  might  be.  As  soon  as  ever 
he  could  transfer  her  to  quarters  where  his  heart  would  per- 
mit him,  with  all  belief  that  her  welfare  would  be  regarded, 
he  would  do  so.  His  plans  ran,  for  the  main  part,  in  the 
direction  of  some  inexpensive  school,  where  he  could  make 
arrangements  for  her  permanent  lodgment,  until  such  time 
as  her  life's  work  might  be  decided.  And  meanwhile  in  hard 
interviews  with  the  housekeeper  he  had  laid  down  the  lines 
which  must  govern  the  child's  stay  in  this  place.  He  would 
admit  no  splicing  of  the  broken  threads ;  no  stolen  approaches 
to  his  heart  or  person.  The  girl  was  to  be  kept  remote ;  was 
to  have  her  meals  in  the  distant  kitchen,  and  to  be  dis- 
couraged from  any  excursion  into  the  grounds  or  house, 
being  brought  to  regard  the  Doctor  as  a  man  hostile  to  child- 
hood and  the  sound  of  voices ;  a  being  inaccessible  to  every- 
thing but  the  summons  of  the  sick.  Sunfleet  and  the 
Doctor's  house,  she  must  be  taught,  were  mere  stepping 


32  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

stones  in  her  life's  pilgrimage.  When  the  time  ripened  she 
must  be  ready  to  fare  forth  on  the  path  chosen,  away  from 
this  place  and  all  that  pertained  to  it.  That,  stripped  to  its 
bleak  bones,  was  the  Doctor's  plan  for  her  reception  and 
disposal. 

As  he  propounded  it  from  time  to  time  to  the  old  house- 
keeper, it  met  with  a  varying  measure  of  scorn  and  open 
hostility,  according  to  her  mood.  Indeed,  to  trace  the  true 
veins  of  her  feeling  through  the  ebullitions  of  conflicting 
anger  which  marked  her  attitude  would  have  offered  a 
difficult  task.  Now  she  was  on  the  side  of  severity,  taxing 
the  Doctor  for  his  weakness :  "  You  was  ever  a  fond  one, 
evens  as  a  lad.  Onnybody  could  be  master  o'  you  that  tried 
and  you  get  warse  i'stead  of  better.  A  nice  idea  it  is  an'  all, 
that  you  should  'a  to  pay  the  price  of  other  folks'  wickedness." 
Now  on  the  side  of  leniency,  chiding  the  Doctor  for  his  hard- 
ness of  heart :  "  Aye,  a  bonny  idea  to  let  yon  bairn  come  i' 
house  fresh  frev  her  mother's  grave,  and  gie  her  no  word  o' 
sorrow  or  welcome.  All  Sunfleet  would  cry  shame  o'  ye. 
That  wasn't  your  mother's  way,  nor  yet  it  isn't  mine."  Now 
in  open  scorn  of  his  project:  "What!  Tell  bairn  you're 
ower  throng  wi'  work  to  be  bothered  wi'  childer!  Aye,  a 
likely  tale.  You'd  find  any  bairn  —  particular  if  she  was  a 
lass  —  believin'  that.  You  would  and  all.  And  first  time 
yon  Pridgeon  comes,  she'd  hear  you  kickin'  stair-rods  all  way 
up  to  bed,  wi'  yon  chap  singin'  down  drive  at  three  i' 
mornin'."  Now  in  personal  rebellion :  "  Div  ye  think  I 
want  lass  i'  kitchen  wi'  me  —  set  at  same  table,  an'  watchin' 
which  side  I  chew  my  meat?  Not  natural.  Fewer  folk 
there  is  scraping  tiles  i'  yon  kitchen,  better  I'se  pleased." 

At  last  the  sounds  so  long  simulated  by  his  imagination, 
broke  upon  the  solitude.  The  Doctor  heard  the  crunch  of 
gravel  prolonged  in  a  crescendo  that  stopped  all  of  a  sudden, 
succeeded  by  the  stir  of  doors  and  the  commingling  of  voices. 


THE:  DOCTORS  LASS  33 

It  turned  him  to  the  statue  of  a  listener  for  a  brief  while, 
and  then,  passing  swiftly  to  the  sideboard  in  the  far  gloom, 
he  drained  a  draught  concocted  from  the  tantalus  and  the 
soda  syphon  with  the  soulless  haste  of  urgency.  Twice  dur- 
ing the  succeeding  minutes  he  did  the  same  until  —  after  an 
eternity  of  waiting — sudden  beams  of  creeping  light  prized 
a  way  beneath  the  door  and  through  the  keyhole,  and  the 
housekeeper  entered,  bearing  the  lamp  in  her  hand.  She 
set  it  down  on  the  table  with  an  ostentatious  double  sniff  in 
the  direction  of  the  sideboard. 

"  You've  gotten  started  then,"  she  said. 

The  Doctor  did  not  retaliate  on  the  aspersion. 

"  Major  has  come  back  again  ?  "  he  asked,  with  assumed 
indifference. 

The  housekeeper  regulated  the  burners  of  the  lamp  and 
flashed  a  straight  look  at  him  in  the  clearer  light.  "If  you 
mean  you  want  to  know  about  lass,  I'll  tell  you,"  she  said 
abruptly.  "  Hilda  Brennan  '11  never  be  dead  so  long  as  yon 
bairn's  wick  (alive),  though  poor  child  looks  very  nigh  pined. 
So  keep  your  lies  about  cousins  and  syke  like  for  them  that's 
bigger  fools  than  you ;  not  for  them  that  slapped  you  when 
you  was  a  baby.  Do  you  think  I  don't  know  what's  been 
amiss  wi'  you  sin'  yon  letter  came?  " 

The  Doctor's  face  grew  a  shade  paler,  and  his  mouth 
betrayed  the  hardening  imposed  on  it  by  restraint. 

"  After  all,  Anne,"  he  said,  "  I  am  not  accountable  to 
you  for  what  I  choose  to  do  or  say."  He  spoke  under  his 
breath,  as  though  he  recognized  the  lurking  new  element  of 
danger  that  threatened  his  happiness  now  beneath  this  roof. 

"  But  if  so  much  as  a  breath  concerning  Hilda  Brennan  or 
this  child  gets  abroad  .  .  .  and  round  to  my  ears !  — " 

A  red  spot  blazed  swiftly  into  the  housekeeper's  withered 
cheek,  and  the  look  in  her  eye  cut  the  threat  upon  his  lips. 

"  Div  you  think  I  can't  keep  a  secret  as  well  as  you  ?  "  she 

3 


34  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

demanded  scornfully.  "  My  wod !  There's  gratitude,  after 
all  the  lies  I've  had  to  tell  for  you  sin'  your  poor  mother 
died.  Whatever  truth  Sunfleet  folks  has  gotten  to  know 
hasn't  been  fro'  me,  that  I  can  say,  and  may  the  Lord  forgie 
me,  for  I  wasn't  lying  for  mysen.  If  onnybody  breathes 
Hilda  Brennan's  name  it'll  be  you  and  yon  whisky  that's  telt 
'em,  not  me.  Aye,  and  onnybody  that  knew  Hilda  Brennan 
before  poor  lass  died  would  know  her  again  i'  yon  bairn, 
wi'oot  needing  to  be  telt.  She's  gotten  her  mother's  eyes 
as  blue  as  blue,  though  bairn  looks  nobbut  half  fed." 

The  Doctor  made  a  sign,  part  beseeching,  part  imperative. 

"  Enough !  "  he  said.  "  Thank  you,  Anne.  Go  back  to 
her." 

"  Gan  back  tiv  her?"  said  the  housekeeper.  "  She  dizn't 
want  to  see  me.  She  wants  to  see  you.  Bairn  wean't  sleep 
while  she  diz." 

"  Me  ? "  The  Doctor  shrank  from  his  own  pronoun  as 
from  an  ill  shadow.  "  No,  no.  I  cannot.  I  will  not,  Anne. 
You  know  what  I  said." 

"  Men  says  a  deal  o'  things  they  don't  mean,"  she  com- 
mented. "  Bairn  has  asked  for  you.  I  telt  her  there  was  a 
deal  o'  sickness  stirring,  and  you  was  very  throng.  I  says 
it's  not  oft  ye  get  to  bed  before  daybreak.  She  says :  '  I 
want  to  see  him  particular.  I  have  a  letter  for  him.  I  must 
see  him.'  Aye,  it  mud  'a  been  her  mother  speaking.  Her 
mother  was  a  bonny  lass,  though  I  never  could  'bide  her 
fancy  ways  —  but,  poor  woman,  she's  dead  and  gone,  and  I'll 
a-warrant  she's  paid  dear  for  her  fancies.  She  little  thought 
an  aud  woman  like  me  would  outlive  her." 

The  Doctor,  with  less  assurance  of  his  purpose,  held  more 
obstinately  to  the  present  negations,  as  a  drunkard  will 
clutch  palings  —  fearing  what  detachment  may  bring. 

"  No,  no.     I  have  told  you,  Anne.     I  will  not     ...     it 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  35 

can  do  no  good.  Keep  her  out  of  my  sight.  I  want  to  be 
left  alone." 

The  housekeeper  looked  upon  him  with  a  strange  admix- 
ture of  commiseration  and  scorn. 

"  You  a  doctor !  "  she  exclaimed,  "  and  dursn't  face  a  bit  of 
a  lass  like  yon,  wi'  her  cheeks  all  wet  for  a  mother  who's 
scarcelins  cold  in  her  grave ! " 

The  Doctor  said,  "  I  have  said  my  say,  Anne,"  and  turned 
to  the  window.  His  own  obstinacy  cut  him  like  a  knife,  and 
yet,  man  that  he  was,  he  drove  it  in  upon  himself.  After  all 
this  course  of  proud  self-ruination  he  could  not  brook  a  tame 
submission  to  any  wet-eyed  legate,  could  not  suffer  to  sop 
the  black  dry  bread  of  animosity  in  tears.  And  yet  some- 
thing within  him  seemed  to  cry  out  like  a  voice,  beseeching 
peace ;  a  truce  with  hatreds ;  a  rehabilitation  in  his  own 
grace.  For  he  had  no  illusions  as  to  his  downfall.  It  was 
complete  enough ;  it  had  carried  him  beyond  the  range  of 
his  own  sympathies. 

The  housekeeper  turned  to  the  door  with  a  parting, 
"  That's  your  father  all  over  again.  Your  dear  mother 
would  'a  done  very  different  —  and  so  would  you  if  she'd 
lived.  But  she's  dead  noo,  and  it's  easy  to  tread  on  them 
that's  underground.  Poor  bairn,  poor  bairn." 

By  prudence  he  ought  to  have  taken  up  his  hat  at  this 
juncture,  he  knew,  and  quitted  the  shelter  of  this  threaten- 
ing roof.  But  a  scorn  of  flight,  and  a  fear  of  chance  meet- 
ings or  interrogations  outside  his  gate  held  him  to  the  room. 
And  against  his  own  admission  he  hoped  dimly,  too,  that  the 
housekeeper  would  return  to  the  charge  and  allow  him  one 
more  show  of  purpose  before  surrender.  In  this  he  was  not 
disappointed.  Before  the  lapse  of  half-an-hour  she  was 
back  at  his  door ;  her  red  nose  and  a  certain  puffiness  of  eye 
proving  conclusively  to  his  medical  satisfaction  that  she  had 


36  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

been  inebriating  herself  at  the  fountain  of  sorrow.  He 
turned  upon  her  with  a  stern  look  of  inquiry,  and  she  faced 
him  with  the  set  sourness  that  has  no  favor  to  ask. 

"  I  nobbut  came  to  see  if  lamp  needed  trimming,"  she  said. 
"  You've  n'  occasion  to  glower  at  me." 

He  indicated  the  globe  with  a  defiant  cast  of  hand. 

"  It  needs  nothing,"  he  said.  "  Thank  you  Anne."  The 
"  thank  you,  Anne  "  was  in  anticipation  of  her  departure,  but 
she  stood  her  ground. 

"  I  can  go  wi'oot  being  thanked  for  it,"  she  said.  "  Yon 
wick's  ower  high.  You've  no  care  for  lamps,  nor  fire,  nor 
house,  nor  bairns,  nor  ought."  She  stooped  to  the  wick- 
screw  with  a  rancid  face,  and  experimented  with  the  taps 
while  the  Doctor  held  her  under  a  brow-battery  of  suspicion 
and  displeasure.  "  An'  yon  poor  child  — "  she  said. 

He  stopped  her  at  that.  "  Close  the  door  after  you,  Anne, 
please.  I  wish  to  be  quiet." 

"  Aye,"  cried  the  housekeeper,  abandoning  the  pretext  of 
wicks.  "  An'  onnybody  mud  know  why.  You  can't  bide 
yoursen.  You're  skulkin'  i'  your  corner  same  as  a  dumb 
animal  that  know's  it's  done  amiss.  You'd  have  ta'en  your- 
self away  this  long  while  sin',  but  your  scared  onnybody  '11 
be  wanting  to  know  things  you'd  for  shame  to  tell." 

"  Am  I  to  have  peace     ...     in  my  house,  Anne  ?  " 

"  Peace !  How  div  you  expect  peace  wi'  syke  behavior  ? 
Ye'll  get  no  peace  so  long  as  yon  bairn's  on  your  conscience." 

He  commenced  to  pace  up  and  down  the  room  once  more, 
perambulating  his  trouble  in  its  swaddling  clothes  of  irreso- 
lution and  doubt,  silent  and  unresponsive  to  the  persuasive 
chidings  of  the  woman. 

"  Why  should  I  see  her?"  he  blurted  out  after  a  time. 

"  Because  you'll  never  rest  while  you  do,"  retorted  the 
housekeeper.  "  Div  you  think  Fse  nursed  you  as  a  bairn  for 
nowt?  I  know  ye  a  deal  better  than  you  know  yoursen  — 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  37 

and  though  you  gan  your  own  road,  you'll  stop  o'  my  way  o' 
thinking." 

"  You  speak  — '  he  said.  "  Have  I  not  done  enough, 
after  all  that  has  happened?  What  other  man  would  do 
more  ?  " 

"What  other  man  would  do  as  much?"  threw  in  the 
housekeeper  with  a  blurt  of  pride.  "  But  do  you  reckon 
yoursen  in  wi'  other  men?  You,  wi'  syke  a  mother  as 
you  had." 

"  Have  it  as  you  like,"  said  the  Doctor,  with  weary  sur- 
render. "  There's  no  arguing  with  you ;  you're  as  obstinate 
as  a  mule." 

"  You'll  see  bairn,  then  ? "  the  housekeeper  caught  up, 
resuming  the  sourness  of  visage  with  the  victory  half  in 
sight. 

"  Not  now."  He  showed  alarm.  "  I  want  to  be  left  alone, 
Anne." 

"When  then?" 

"  Some  other  time." 

"  What  other  time  ?  " 

"  To-morrow  —  possibly.".  He  commenced  to  re-measure 
his  paces  once  more. 

"  To-morrow's  no  good,"  said  the  housekeeper  darkly. 
"  She's  set  i'  kitchen  yonder,  waitin  o'  me  coming  back  wi' 
message.  You'll  find  job  a  deal  easier  by  lamplight.  Get 
set  i'  chair  wi'  you,  and  I'll  send  her  in  noo." 

"  No,  no."  The  Doctor  stopped  authoritatively  in  his 
walk.  The  housekeeper,  without  responding,  moved  to  the 
door. 

"  Do  you  hear  me,  Anne  ?  " 

"  Aye,  I  hear  you." 

"  Not  to-night.  Do  you  understand  ?  I  won't  see  her  to- 
night." 

The  housekeeper's  silence  awoke  his  terrors. 


38  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

"  Anne  —  I  forbid  you." 

No  words  of  controversy  or  submission  accompanied  her 
departure.  The  Doctor  listened  for  a  moment  to  the  enigma 
of  her  retreating  footsteps,  and  then  with  his  worst  apprehen- 
sions roused,  hurriedly  lowered  the  lamp. 


VI 

HE  heard  —  the  sound  of  mingled  steps  across  the 
whispering  hall;  sensed  the  consolatory  winding  of 
arms ;  heard  the  housekeeper's  voice  —  a  spiritualized  ver- 
sion of  itself,  winged  with  tenderness  —  bid  the  child  be  of 
good  courage  and  hold  him  in  no  fear.  "  It's  his  way,  that's 
all,"  he  caught  the  whisper.  Then,  with  a  final  "  Walk 
your  ways  in,  honey,"  the  door  opened,  and  drew  slowly 
back  on  its  hinges. 

"  Cousin  Humphrey." 

The  small  figure  moved  with  the  brief  uncertain  steps  of 
the  self-feared  intruder,  measuring  the  paces  with  timid 
judgment  as  though  they  were  the  drops  of  a  deadly  tincture 
that  must  be  apportioned  with  care.  At  three-yards  distance 
she  adjudged  the  potion  deep  enough,  and  stopped  there 
with  her  blue  eyes  held  up  to  him,  full  of  childish  curiosity 
and  unsifted  fear.  A  distrust  of  himself  and  a  fear  of  this 
child,  tempered  with  more  than  a  suspicion  of  the  keyhole, 
constrained  his  greeting.  He  bowed  his  head  towards  her  with 
grave  acknowledgment,  and  uttered  a  husky  "  Well  .  .  ." 
More  than  that  not  for  the  life  of  him  could  he  have  articu- 
lated then,  for  at  the  sight  of  those  blue  eyes  and  fair  smooth 
brow,  emotion  took  him  by  the  throat.  As  he  looked  at  her 
he  felt  as  though  she  must  be  some  visual  emanation  of  his 
own  thoughts;  a  spiritual  projection  that,  at  will,  he  could 
re-absorb  into  his  consciousness.  For  a  few  brief  moments 
—  to  him  an  infinity  —  they  faced  each  other,  slaking  their 
thirst  of  curiosity  on  each  other's  semblance.  Then  the  girl 
slowly  extended  her  hand,  and  he  perceived  there  was  a  letter 

39 


40  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

in  it,  a  crumpled  counterpart  of  that  which  he  had  already 
received. 

"  I  was  to  give  you  this,"  she  said,  in  a  low  childish  voice. 

Mechanically  he  took  it  from  her,  and  as  an  alternative  to 
the  speech  he  dreaded,  drew  forward  a  chair  and  bade  her 
be  seated  —  placing  her  so  that  the  lamp  should  divide  them. 
She  said  — "  Thank  you  "  with  the  timid  apprehension  for  a 
fault,  even  here,  and  seated  herself  in  pallid  submission,  her 
hands  motionless  in  her  lap ;  her  blue  eyes  alone  following, 
as  though  hungry  for  a  sign ;  a  forlorn  and  fragile  figure  of 
^rief.  The  Doctor,  reducing  doggedly  the  area  of  his  gaze, 
so  that  it  should  ever  fall  short  of  those  supplicating  eyes, 
drew  also  a  chair  for  himself  within  the  compass  of  the  lamp- 
light, but  not  too  near  for  the  child's  scrutiny,  and  deciphered 
the  labored  characters  of  the  wrinkled  page. 

This  time  it  was  not  a  long  letter,  like  the  other.  That 
had  been  written  in  the  throes  of  desperation  and  prayer, 
when  all  the  writer's  forces  had  flowed  onward  like  a  mill 
stream  to  the  consummation  of  her  purpose ;  this  breathed 
the  calm  of  exhaustion.  The  waters  that  had  heaped  them- 
selves to  move  a  man's  will  were  fallen  now  to  the  level  of 
the  peaceful  weir,  circulating  in  phase  of  tranquil  gratitude, 
and  tinged  already  with  the  pallid  gleams  of  death's 
twilight.  "  I  shall  die,"  the  letter  ran  on  in  one  part,  "  with- 
out the  earthly  knowledge  of  your  goodness  or  the  comfort 
of  knowing  that  my  child  is  cared  for  in  the  world  I  am 
about  to  leave.  But  death  lends  me  a  greater  confidence 
than  any  I  could  borrow  from  life,  for  all  my  trying,  and  each 
day  strengthens  my  faith  in  God's  mercy  and  your  own 
goodness.  .  .  .  And  do  you  know,  it  has  crept  into  my 
mind,  not  of  my  thinking,  but  as  if  it  came  from  God,  that 
my  child  may  live  to  make  reparation  for  the  ill  I  did  you ; 
and  that,  through  her  dear  heart,  your  forgiveness  may  some 
day  seek  me  in  my  lonely  grave.  God  bless  you,  Humphrey." 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  41 

Memories  of  his  mother ;  memories  of  the  dead  woman ; 
memories  of  himself  as  he  had  been  once,  floated  the  rest 
of  the  letter's  phrases  away  from  him  in  a  sting  of  tears. 
He  raised  his  hand  to  his  brow,  as  though  to  keep  out  the 
lamp's  rays,  that  the  girl  might  not  surprise  his  weakness, 
and  minute  after  minute  he  maintained  an  attitude  of  perusal, 
long  after  the  phrases  were  bitten  into  his  mind,  and  had 
become  meaningless  with  much  re-reading.  At  last  the  ten- 
sion of  silence  drew  him  from  his  refuge  like  a  call,  and 
blank  as  to  what  should  follow,  he  folded  up  the  letter  with 
decorous  care  for  a  missive  from  the  dead,  and  offered  him- 
self once  more  to  the  scrutiny  of  the  blue  eyes.  This  time 
they  were  blind  with  tears ;  overwelling,  as  it  seemed,  with  a 
liquid  blue  that  stained  itself  clarid  through  the  girl's  glisten- 
ing thick  lashes,  and  streamed  unchecked  down  the  flat 
courses  of  her  dabbled  cheeks.  She  made  no  movement  to 
assuage  her  own  sorrow,  but  sat,  her  meek  hands  still  folded 
in  her  lap,  submissive  to  the  grief  that  shook  her ;  still  fixing 
her  blue  eyes,  in  their  weeping  blindness,  on  the  man  who 
was,  to  her,  the  rock  of  succor  in  her  ocean  of  loneliness 
and  trouble.  He,  on  his  part,  watched  her  awkwardly 
enough ;  drawing  the  letter  through  his  fingers  again  and 
again ;  distrustful  of  his  tongue ;  suspicious,  too,  of  the  door 
that  seemed  (to  him)  more  strangely  silent  than  of  wont, 
as  though  endowed  with  almost  human  qualities  of  attentive- 
ness  and  hearing. 

"Poor  child  .  .  ."he  suffered  himself  at  last  to  murmur  ; 
but  the  words  were  but  empty  chalices  of  comfort,  lacking 
the  wine  and  warmth  that  are  poured  from  the  flagon  of  a 
full  heart.  Something  in  his  new  nature  —  those  stubborn 
fingers  of  the  morbid  principle  that  had  grown  up  within 
him  during  all  these  years  of  virtual  seclusion  —  suffocated 
the  instinct  of  pity  towards  this  one  lone  child.  All  the 
weight  of  her  mother's  sin  and  his  life's  suffering  was  upon 


42  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

her  small  bowed  shoulders,  and  for  him,  she  must  be  weaned 
from  love  and  the  milk  of  pity.  In  silence  he  watched  the 
blue  eyes  welling  up  under  their  big  \vatery  lenses  to  gro- 
tesque dimensions.  And  as  he  watched  he  felt  the  sense 
of  self-scorn  that  consumes  all  men  who  view  distress  with 
the  implements  of  comfort  lying  idly  at  hand  and  will  not, 
or  cannot,  use  them.  When  he  saw  her  trying  to  subdue 
her  own  trouble  unassisted,  with  fortitude  and  the  damp 
handkerchief,  a  pang  went  through  him  as  if  he  had  watched 
her  drown  without  sign  or  comfort. 

"  There,  there  .  .  ."  he  said,  with  the  empty  formula 
for  solace.  "  It  is  indeed  a  heavy  trouble,  and  you  have  had 
a  long  tiring  journey.  Go  back  to  Anne.  Anne  understands 
tears.  She  will  look  after  you  and  try  to  make  you  forget 
your  sorrow." 

This  time  the  sound  of  his  voice  undid  the  work  of  the 
girl's  fortitude.  Her  tears  ran  out  to  the  chill  semblance 
of  pity  as  to  a  friend,  and  the  sniff,  released  from  discipline, 
became  a  sob  that  shook  her  small  bosom  to  its  depths. 

"  I  do  not  want  Anne,"  she  pressed  out  through  a  bitterness 
of  tears,  and  the  voice,  strangled  at  that,  foundered  suddenly 
under  a  surging  billow  of  "  Mother  .  .  .  O,  mother ! " 
That  cry  had  been  in  the  Doctor's  heart  many  and  many  a 
time,  and  invested  now  with  the  living  anguish  of  those 
childish  lips,  that  tore  with  a  passion  at  the  words  as  though 
to  disinter  from  their  stony  keeping  the  mother  who  lay  now 
in  her  pallid  shroud  —  it  reawakened  his  own  dormant  loss 
like  the  ringing  of  a  bell,  and  stirred  a  hundred  creeping 
echoes  through  his  loneliness.  Before  he  had  shaken  off  the 
clasping  memories  of  the  cry,  the  girl  rose  swiftly  from  her 
seat  with  a  movement  he  could  not  anticipate  or  divine,  and 
the  next  moment,  all  wet  and  weeping  as  she  was,  she  had 
thrown  herself  impulsively  upon  his  neck. 

"  I  want  you"  she  said,  sobbing  the  words  into  his  ear. 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  43 

"  Mother  told  me  you  would  love  me  and  care  for  me.  And 
I  have  no  one  else  in  the  world.  I  am  so  sick  and  lonely." 

A  thrill,  almost  of  revulsion,  ran  through  him  as  the  two 
arms  clasped  about  his  neck  and  he  felt  the  suspension  of 
the  child's  inert  body  buoyed  to  him  in  the  desperate  need 
for  comfort.  He  looked  at  first  compulsively,  and  without 
pity,  at  the  wet  face  hanging  just  below  his  own,  one  cheek 
against  his  shoulder.  And  as  he  looked,  a  wondering  grew 
up  in  him  that  absorbed  resentment  and  diffused  his  per- 
sonal feeling  through  a  vast  and  tranquil  space  of  specula- 
tion. After  all  these  misspent  years,  he  told  himself,  the 
features  that  neither  deception  nor  the  grave  could  obliterate 
were  stamped  upon  his  life's  parchment  once  more.  The 
housekeeper  had  spoken  truly.  While  this  child's  face  was 
the  playground  for  laughter  or  tears,  Hilda  Brennan  would 
never  die. 

For  some  minutes  they  remained  thus ;  the  Doctor  im- 
mobile, stony,  filled  with  emotions  that  flickered  within  him 
and  diffused  no  tokens  to  his  outer  being;  the  girl  languid 
with  grief  and  the  new-found  sense  of  a  rock  to  lean  on,  even 
though  the  rock  offered  no  better  virtue  than  security.  Then 
she  withdrew  her  head  from  his  shoulder  to  the  limit  of  her 
clasped  arms,  and  her  sobs  ceased  whilst  she  read  his  face 
intently,  line  by  line,  like  the  pages  of  an  open  book. 

"  Are  you  sorry  for  me  ?  "  she  asked  at  length,  with  the 
sudden  directness  that  makes  youthful  interrogation  ever  a 
menace  to  maturity. 

"  Who  would  not  be  sorry  for  you  ?  "  he  answered.  "  I  am 
very  sorry  for  you."  He  spoke  in  the  low  dry  voice  of 
impersonal  gravity,  anxious  to  divorce  this  grief  from  its 
dangerous  human  attachments,  and  to  place  it  beyond  mis- 
take in  the  realm  of  universals. 

Her  lips  were  under  his,  and  a  great  suffocating  lump  was 
in  his  throat ;  half  from  a  turbulent  revolt  in  his  nature, 


44  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

half  pity  compounded  in  a  new  element  of  God  knows  what. 
He  put  forth  his  mouth  and  touched  her  cheek  with  the  ends 
of  his  mustache.  She  would  have  clung  to  him  the  closer, 
but  at  that  he  disengaged  her  hands  and  rose  away  from 
her,  touching  her  shoulder  in  a  kind  of  indulgent  transition 
that  should  modulate  from  the  abruptness  of  the  act.  The 
interview  had  taxed  him  more  than  he  could  believe,  for  now 
he  seemed  to  have  no  proper  standpoint  of  his  own.  All 
his  nature  seemed  disintegrated  and  at  variance:  by  times 
he  was  suffused  with  pity,  by  times  with  a  passionate  re- 
sistance that  beat  its  arms  in  the  flat  air  of  futility. 

"  Go  back  to  Anne  now,"  he  said.  "  She  will  be  good  to 
you,  and  give  you  some  supper.  I  have  much  to  do." 

The  sudden  creaking  of  a  door  released  from  pressure 
confirmed  his  worst  fears  of  the  keyhole,  but  even  while  he 
stood  between  the  two  extremities,  in  an  atmosphere  rendered 
all  at  once  hateful  and  unendurable,  the  hall  echoed  to  a  new 
and  noisy  element,  and  next  moment,  with  an  affable  cry  of 
"  Hello,  Anne.  Now  I've  caught  you ! "  the  redoubtable 
Teddy  Pridgeon  burst  into  the  room. 

Taller  than  the  Doctor,  of  a  more  tenacious  and  wiry 
figure,  emphasized  by  his  riding-breeches  and  cloth  leggings, 
this  terror  to  solicitous  maternity  throughout  the  district 
was  chiefly  characterized  by  a  wide  and  engaging  smile, 
full  of  sagacious  candor,  that  extended  between  clean- 
shaven lips  (somewhat  blue  in  their  rebellion  to  the  blade) 
and  irradiated  his  sun-browned  countenance  to  the  very 
eyes  with  a  kindling  of  luminous  pleasantry.  It  was  a  smile 
that  knew  everything  and  withheld  nothing ;  a  smile  rich  with 
the  wisdom  of  all  the  weaknesses  inherent  in  the  spirit  and 
the  flesh  —  though  chiefly  the  latter;  a  smile  alike  ingratia- 
tory  and  independent,  careless  and  observant,  all-saying  and 
unsayable.  The  man's  whole  being  seemed  bound  up  in  it, 
growing  to  smile,  indeed,  as  it  is  the  function  of  wheat  to 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  45 

grow  ear,  or  a  vvurzel  to  develop  root.  When  the  smile  left 
him  —  but  that  was  rarely,  and  at  few  moments  of  publicity 
—  there  crept  a  darkness  over  his  face  like  the  passage  of  a 
thunder  cloud  across  the  sun  that  eats  up  the  sky  on  a  July 
day.  Then  the  shaven  blueness  engulfed  the  sunny  brown 
of  cheeks  and  chin,  and  lent  a  spurious  hollow  to  the  former ; 
the  dark  broad  eyebrows  sat  lower,  with  a  seat  of  joylessness 
and  discontent,  and  the  brown  eyes  lost  their  twinkle  like  a 
purse  depleted  of  coin.  There  were  few,  however,  who  had 
at  any  time  the  chance  to  study  Pridgeon's  face  in  its  passive 
calm,  for  at  the  first  sign  of  observation,  like  a  lark  to  the 
tread  of  human  foot,  immediately  the  smile  took  wing  and 
spread  itself  over  his  face,  a  jubilant  silent  song.  As  he  burst 
through  the  doorway  to-night,  his  face  with  the  smile  on  it 
shone  like  a  second  lamp. 

"  Hello,  Doctor !  "  he  cried,  in  a  voice  typically  soil-rough- 
ened, and  ingrained  with  the  lurking  dialect  that  could,  at  his 
will,  burst  out  in  characteristic  veins  of  richest  ore :  "  Lord 
bless  us,  let's  have  a  drink.  I'm  as  dry  as  a  clots  field." 

The  greeting  and  the  smile  had  almost  preceded  him  in 
his  impulsive  burst,  but  as  he  tumbled  into  the  room  and  his 
eyes  fell  upon  the  small  hushed  figure,  standing  still  by  the 
table  where  the  Doctor  had  deserted  her,  the  smile  jumped 
quickly  to  a  flare  of  surprise,  as  though  some  one  had  turned 
all  the  lights  on  in  a  half-lit  room.  "  Hello !  "  he  said,  in- 
fusing more  intense  apostrophe  into  the  word  this  second 
time,  "  what  the  devil !  Why,  what's  up  with  you  all  to- 
night? I've  just  tumbled  over  Anne  with  her  nose  in  the 
keyhole,  and  now  .  .  ."  He  came  round  into  the  center 
of  the  room  for  a  clear  view  of  the  situation,  and  the  smile 
widened  with  sudden  intelligence  over  the  girl. 

"A  lass!"  said  he,  in  wonder.  "Why!  What!  Nay, 
I'll  be  blest.  And  she's  been  crying  and  all."  He  turned  to 
the  Doctor,  still  smiling  his  delectable  smile,  shameless  and 


46  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

unembarrassed.     "  Damn  it !     So  have  you,"  he  exclaimed. 

"  You're  a  liar,  Pridgeon,"  said  the  Doctor  hotly. 

The  rebuff  only  added  a  fresh  luster  to  Pridgeon's  genial- 
ity, and  the  smile  shone  with  replenished  wisdom  and  in- 
sight. 

"  Well,  you  needn't  bite  me,"  he  said,  with  engaging  affa- 
bility. "  Your  eyes  look  strange  and  red.  Maybe  it's  whisky. 
Whose  lass  is  she  ? "  The  Doctor,  smoldering  with  resent- 
ment, and  caught  on  the  horns  of  an  awkward  interrogation, 
paused  in  his  reply. 

The  girl,  looking  from  one  to  the  other  with  a  sort  of 
divided  fear,  breathed,  so  softly  as  to  be  almost  inaudible, 
"  He  is  my  cousin." 

"  Cousin !  "  cried  Pridgeon,  and  laying  out  a  great  bronzed 
hand  that  had  chucked  dozens  of  feminine  Sunfleet  chins  in 
its  time,  turned  up  the  girl's  wet  face  like  wall  fruit  after 
rain;  carelessly,  and  yet,  too,  with  a  sort  of  rough  kindness 
that  robbed  the  act  of  any  terror.  "  Let's  have  a  look  at 
you,"  said  he.  The  girl  turned  her  damp  cheeks  and  her 
blue  eyes  upward,  obedient  to  the  call,  and  gazed  without 
shrinking  while  the  genial  farmer  scrutinized  the  small  face 
held  to  inspection  in  the  hollow  of  his  horny  palm.  "  Why, 
she's  a  bonny  lass  and  all,"  he  said.  "  Now,  if  she'd  only 
been  a  bit  bigger  — " 

"  That'll  do,  Pridgeon,"  the  Doctor  cut  in  curtly.  "  Don't 
you  see  the  child's  in  trouble  ?  "  He  uttered  the  last  sentence 
in  a  subdued  under-voice,  but  the  farmer,  unhabited  to  deli- 
cate subterfuge,  turned  the  full  flare  of  his  smile  upon  the 
words  at  once. 

"  In  trouble  ?  "  cried  he  —  to  whom  the  word  "  trouble  " 
ever  had  a  particular  significance.  And  then  he  noted  the 
signs  of  mourning. 

"  What  —  has  she  lost  anybody  ?  "  he  inquired,  still  with 
the  same  genial  interrogation,  as  though  even  death  had  no 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  47 

reservation  for  his  smile.  "  Aye,  she's  in  black,  I  see.  What 
are  you  frowning  at?  Who  is  it?  " 

The  girl,  with  the  source  of  her  sorrow  re-opened  "by  the 
question,  sniffed  to  a  fresh  spurt  of  tears,  and  uttered  in  a 
broken  voice,  "  My  mother." 

"  There.  Look  what  you're  doing,  Pridgeon,"  the  Doctor 
said.  "Why  couldn't  you  drop  the  subject?  I  gave  you  a 
hint." 

"  Hint  ?  "  exclaimed  the  farmer,  holding  up  the  word  aloud 
to  genial  derision.  "  What's  the  good  of  hints  to  me  ?  "  He 
let  fall  the  girl's  chin  and  laid  his  hand,  inverted  now,  like  a 
great  cap  over  her  brown  hair.  "  We've  all  got  to  die  some 
time  or  other.  There's  no  use  making  a  secret  of  it.  Come, 
lass,  don't  spoil  your  eyes." 

He  patted  her  on  the  head  once  or  twice,  and  withdrew 
his  hand  to  balance  its  fellow  in  his  breeches  pocket. 
Strangely  enough,  his  careless  handling  of  this  fragile  grief 
had  no  disquieting  consequences  on  the  girl.  Obedient  to 
his  genial  dictate,  with  a  few  residuary  sobs  —  the  wringings 
out  of  her  momentary  trouble  —  she  ceased  her  weeping  and 
stood,  a  passive  instrument  of  sorrow,  with  its  vibrating 
strings  at  rest.  The  Doctor  seized  the  moment  that  he  had 
been  fretfully  awaiting  since  Pridgeon's  entrance,  and  com- 
mended her  anew,  more  forcefully,  to  Anne's  good  care  and 
bed.  She  squeezed  the  handkerchief  to  still  smaller  dimen- 
sions, and  padding  the  last  traces  of  her  tears  from  eyes  and 
cheeks,  paused,  a  small  irresolute  figure,  before  these  two 
strange  men. 

"  Good-night,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  uncertain  voice,  and 
looked  from  the  Doctor  to  Pridgeon,  and  from  Pridgeon  to 
the  Doctor,  with  a  quick  glance  through  her  still-glistening 
lashes.  The  Doctor  returned  a  constrained  "  Good-night  " ; 
the  smiling  farmer  drew  his  left  hand  out  of  his  pocket,  and 
with  the  right  still  carelessly  embedded  in  its  place  among 


48  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

loose  coppers,  keys,  and  ears  of  last  summer's  wheat,  stooped 
to  the  girl  in  the  semicircle  of  his  arm  and  gave  her  a  hearty 
kiss. 

"  Good-night,  lass,"  said  he.  "  Don't  think  ower  much 
about  your  mother." 

The  girl  returned  his  kiss  along  with  a  gravely  repeated 
"  Good-night,"  and  looked  towards  the  Doctor  with  a  tilted 
chin,  as  though  to  see  whether  this  open  ceremony  had 
effected  any  change  in  his  own  intentions.  He  saw  the 
action,  and  stooping  beneath  the  watchful,  unresting  smile, 
laid  cold  lips  on  the  girl's  cheek. 


VII 

THE  'Doctor  sought  his  bedroom  late  that  night,  for  the 
genial  Pridgeon  had  been,  in  his  own  phraseology,  "  a 
good  boy  for  three  days,"  and  was  "  jolly  well  sick  of  it.'' 
To  all  the  Doctor's  hints  of  departure  he  turned  a  deaf  ear. 

"  Lord  bless  us !  "  he  cried.  "  You  needn't  sit  up  for  me 
if  you're  tired.  I  know  my  way  out." 

Midnight  found  the  farmer  songful,  though  perspiring 
and  complaining  of  the  heat.  At  half-past  two,  having 
stemmed  a  whole  tide  of  invitations  to  take  his  leave,  he  rose 
suddenly  with  a  farewell  glass  —  still  smiling  —  though  the 
smile  was  now  lower  on  the  left  side  than  the  right,  and 
seemed  in  some  danger  of  slipping  headlong  down  his  neck. 
By  the  table  he  stood  some  while  with  an  oscillating  move- 
ment, having  the  air  of  one  striving  to  recall  the  name  of 
a  mountain-peak  in  the  Andes,  displaying  the  great  smile 
smeared  diagonally  across  his  countenance  like  a  streak  of 
color-wash,  lusterless  through  a  week's  exposure  to  the  rain, 
and  disengaging  the  awkward  words  from  his  mouth  as 
though  he  were  ejecting  plum-stones.  The  Doctor,  scarcely 
more  master  of  his  articulation,  but  invested  with  a  greater 
gravity,  helped  to  quadruple  the  sound  of  echoing  footsteps 
across  the  hall,  where,  after  much  unnecessary  pulling  of 
bolts  and  jangling  of  door-chains,  intermingled  with  sibilant 
laughter  and  amiable  profanity  on  the  part  of  Pridgeon,  he 
bade  the  farmer  good-by. 

The  Doctor  awoke  heavily  next  morning,  fighting  his  way 
to  consciousness  out  of  uncomfortable  slumber  as  if  he  had 
4  49 


50  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

been  sleeping  all  night  head  downward  in  a  water-butt,  and 
after  a  soulless  tub,  with  much  cold  fluid  to  the  region  of  the 
head,  garbed  himself  in  the  very  garments  of  discontent. 
His  mind  harmonized  badly  with  the  sunlight,  parting  with 
long  gold  fingers  the  foliage  of  Indian  oak  and  sycamore  that 
sought  to  screen  it  from  his  window ;  harmonized  badly,  too, 
with  the  songful  tide  of  bees,  greeting  the  warmth  with 
clarion  blasts  from  their  shrill  trumpets,  trickling  out  through 
the  wax-blackened  crevice  in  the  wall,  from  the  hive  in  the 
fastnesses  of  brick  and  mortar  below  his  window,  a  brown 
viscid  stream ;  launching  their  velvet  bodies  one  after  the 
other  into  the  fragrant  warm  air,  and  sweeping  away  to  their 
vanishing  point  in  the  milk-blue  ether.  But  this  morning 
he  lent  no  heed  to  sun  or  surging  bees ;  or  to  pink  rose  push- 
ing up  its  girl's  face  to  his  open  window  through  a  profusion 
of  jasmine  and  wall  ivy ;  or  to  the  great  trees  inflating  slowly 
with  sunlight ;  or  to  the  disorderly  tangle  of  garden  below, 
with  the  half-obliterated  quincunx  of  diamond  box-edged 
flower  plots  —  that  had  been  a  triumph  of  floriculture  in 
Dendy's  days  —  over  whose  weed-choked  borders  now  the 
giant  marguerites  ran  in  invading  hordes.  Month  by  month 
he  had  seen  the  ill  things  grow  up,  and  take  the  flower-beds 
by  the  throat  and  choke  them,  and  strangle  the  walks,  and 
slowly  thrust  out  his  mother's  memory  and  spirit.  Now  she 
had  no  place  in  the  garden ;  the  pathways  offered  no  passage 
to  a  woman's  foot.  Only  at  long  lapses  did  she  stand,  a  dim, 
far-off  figure,  mourning  this  herbage  picture  of  her  son's 
heart. 

And  this  morning  there  was  less  place  for  her  memory 
than  ever,  within  him.  He  recalled  the  episodes  of  the  even- 
ing before,  and  an  anger  begotten  of  shame  rose  up  within 
him. 

With  the  last-  touches  of  his  retarded  toilet  he  strode  to 
where  the  dingy  bell-pull  hung  down  the  faded  wall-paper 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  51 

by  his  bed  head,  and  tugged  upon  it  once  or  twice.  Far  away 
a  rusty  bell  lifted  its  dry  mouth  and  shook  off  two  harsh 
treble  notes,  abrupt  and  stagnant,  like  a  spinster's  cough. 
They  were  succeeded  by  a  stirring  of  interceptive  doors,  and 
the  hall  was  stimulated  by  the  sliding  movement  of  the  house- 
keeper's slippers.  The  Doctor  called  her  name  with  quiet 
emphasis. 

"  Anne." 

"  Noo,"  she  said,  as  she  presented  herself  before  him, 
dropping  her  laboring  skirts  to  take  up  an  apron  corner  and 
wipe  the  moist  displeasure  from  her  brow.  l<  Am  I  oot  o' 
breath  enough  to  please  you?  What  wi'  bairns  and  what  wi' 
grown-up  people,  place  seems  fair  filled  wi'  masters." 

The  Doctor  disregarded  the  imputation,  but  seemed  to  of- 
fer a  listening  ear  in  the  direction  of  the  hall  below. 

"Where  is  she,  Anne?" 

"  Little  you  care  where  she  is,  or  how  she  fares,"  the 
housekeeper  rebuked  him,  "  nobbut  she's  out  o'  your  road. 
Much  sympathy  diz  dead  folk'  bairns  get  fro'  you." 

He  said,  "  Keep  her  away  from  me,  Anne,  please.  I  don't 
wish  any  repetition  of  last  night.  You  understand.  As  soon 
as  I  can  make  suitable  arrangements  to  get  rid  of  her 
.  .  .  she  shall  go  elsewhere."  He  paused,  and  stroked  his 
forehead  as  though  to  smooth  a  wandering  and  troubled 
mind.  "  Until  then,  please,  see  that  I  am  left  absolutely 
undisturbed.  I  lay  the  charge  upon  you,  Anne.  Now  I  am 
coming  down  to  breakfast.  Tell  Major  to  bring  the  trap 
round  in  ten  minutes.  I  have  a  long  day's  work." 

"  Aye,  that's  it,"  said  the  housekeeper.  "  Drive  away  f rev 
her.  Be  a  coward." 

"  And  the  next  time,"  added  the  Doctor,  seeking  to  defend 
himself  by  a  counter  stroke  of  reproof,  ".  .  .  that  I 
have  to  interview  anybody,  I  should  like  it  to  be  private, 
please.  You  were  listening  at  the  keyhole  last  night." 


52  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

"Well,  what  if  I  was?"  retorted  the  housekeeper,  with 
defiance.  "  I  won't  gie  you  pleasure  o'  denying  it.  There's 
nought  to  be  ashamed  of.  I'se  sure  a  real  cry  at  times  diz 
onnybody  a  deal  more  good  than  doctor's  physic  —  and  it's 
precious  few  cries  I  gets  chance  on  in  this  dowly  spot.  I'd 
very  nigh  forgotten  what  Almighty  gied  me  my  eyes  for  while 
last  night."  The  remembrance  of  their  liquid  indulgence  in- 
spired her  to  a  brief  re-usage  of  the  apron.  "  And  you 
.  .  ."  she  said  with  denunciation,  "  wi'  scarce  a  word  o' 
comfort  on  your  lips  while  poor  bairn  bled  her  heart  out 
very  nigh.  Never  a  question  as  to  what  her  mother  died  on, 
or  whether  she  had  onny  pain  at  last,  or  what  sort  of  a  coffin 
they  put  poor  soul  into,  and  how  many  folks  there  was 
stood  i'  street  to  watch  her  ta'en  away.  You  leave  all  that  to 
me.  And  yet  you  reckon  to  call  yoursen  a  doctor !  " 

She  swept  down  the  stairs,  mumbling  her  indignation,  and 
as  soon  as  her  sliding  slippers  and  whispering  stiff  skirts  had 
crossed  the  echoing  hall,  the  Doctor  came  down  the  sun- 
lighted  staircase  into  the  big  room,  whose  morning  freshness 
still  bore  tribute  to  the  all-sovereign  weed.  Here  he  paced 
with  moody  resolution,  humming  a  kind  of  joyless  Doric 
dirge  through  his  set  lips  as  though  holding  the  silence  and 
the  whole  world  of  living  beings  at  bay.  As  a  defence 
against  either,  however,  the  humming  failed.  Scarcely  had 
he  reached  the  window  before  the  ominous  silence  of  the 
house  was  rudely  disturbed.  Doors  seemed  everywhere  to 
be  violently  thrown  open;  agitated  skirts  to  blow,  and  arms 
to  be  flung  back.  Next  moment  the  hall  went  off  into  a 
hiss  of  echoes  like  a  rocket,  and  the  girl  burst  impulsively 
into  the  room. 

"  Cousin  Humphrey !  "  she  panted. 

Behind  her,  with  the  spots  blazing  in  her  withered  cheeks, 
and  the  restlessness  of  chin  and  lip  betraying  agitation  be- 
yond the  control  of  speech,  followed  the  housekeeper,  breath- 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  53 

less  through  haste  and  indignation.  "  Don't  blame  me,"  she 
cried  threateningly.  "  Fse  nought  to  do  wi'  it.  I  nobbut  did 
as  I  was  bid." 

"  She  said,"  panted  the  girl  very  hotly  and  passionately, 
— "  she  said  you  did  not  want  me.  She  said  I  was  to  stop  in 
the  kitchen  and  keep  out  of  your  way.  Tell  her  it  is  untrue. 
You  wrote  for  me  yourself,  Cousin  Humphrey,  and  sent  me 
the  money  for  my  railway  fare.  It  is  wicked  of  her  to  tell 
such  untruths." 

"  You  called  'em  '  lies  '  before,"  threw  in  the  housekeeper 
breathlessly.  "  Speak  truth  wi'  ye,  and  don't  try  and  shove 
blame  on  me." 

"  Tell  her  they  are  lies,  then,"  the  girl  repeated  passion- 
ately. "  Tell  her  so  while  she  is  there." 

She  came  forward  possessively  close  to  him,  panting  with 
indignation,  so  that  each  breath  fanned  his  cheek,  and  seiz- 
ing him  in  a  kind  of  fierce  appropriation,  as  a  cat  might  do  a 
bone,  she  seemed  to  defend  him  from  the  housekeeper's  reach 
in  argument. 

"  Aye,  that's  it,"  reiterated  the  housekeeper  with  malign 
joy.  "  Tell  her  what  you  telt  me  atop  o'  yon  stairs,  not  five 
minutes  sin'.  I'll  listen  to  ye." 

The  girl  slipped  her  two  arms  about  him,  and  held  him  as 
a  sign  visible  to  the  housekeeper  of  her  right  and  unques- 
tionable place,  pressing  her  hot  cheek  against  his  arm  in  a 
demonstration  of  love  and  triumph.  The  Doctor's  pulse 
quickened  its  beat,  and  the  blood  stained  his  temples  to  a 
deeper  hue  as  he  assumed  an  air  of  authority. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  after  a  moment,  "  let  us  have  no  quar- 
reling in  this  house."  He  tried  to  withdraw  his  arm  un- 
noticed from  the  girl's  clasp,  but  at  the  first  sign  of  with- 
drawal her  fingers  tightened  their  hold  on  it,  and  her  hot 
cheek  lent  its  aid  for  restraint.  "  I  hope  you  have  been 
exercising  your  authority  wisely,  Anne,"  he  said  with  em- 


54  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

phasis,  "  and  not  turning  my  remarks  to  —  to  mischief.  I 
repose  great  confidence  in  you." 

"  Mischief ! "  exclaimed  the  housekeeper  protestingly. 
"  That's  a  nice  word  to  get  for  doing  as  you're  bid.  Speak 
tiv  her,  not  me.  I  never  said  onnything  tiv  her  while  she 
started  it." 

"  I  didn't  start  it,"  the  girl  objected  hotly.  "  I  never  did 
anything.  I  only  wanted  to  bring  your  breakfast  in  for  you, 
Cousin  Humphrey,  and  she  turned  horrid  all  at  once,  and 
said  bairns  like  me  were  best  out  of  the  road  when  doctors 
were  getting  their  breakfasts." 

"  Aye,  and  she  wouldn't  be  said  neither,"  confirmed  the 
housekeeper.  "  She  defied  me  to  my  face." 

"  I  said  I  only  wanted  to  bring  your  coffee  into  the  room 
and  wish  you  good-morning,"  the  girl  continued.  "  And  she 
said  the  further  I  kept  away  from  the  room  at  any  time,  the 
better  you  would  thank  me  for  it.  She  said  the  room  was 
no  place  for  such  as  me.  The  room  was  hers  and  yours. 
The  kitchen  was  my  place,  and  I  was  to  be  grateful,  and 
keep  it.  She  said  she  had  always  brought  your  meals  in, 
and  you  couldn't  fancy  them  from  anybody  else,  and  she 
wasn't  going  to  let  her  place  be  taken  by  a  bit  of  a  bairn 
like  me.  Not  natural.  And  she  said  if  I'd  any  proper  feel- 
ing I  ought  to  be  thinking  about  my  mother,  and  crying 
quiet  on  my  chair,  instead  of  bothering  my  head  with  such 
things  as  breakfasts.  And  I  do  think  about  my  mother.  I 
was  crying  about  her  all  last  night." 

The  girl's  voice  rattled  on  in  its  level  artillery  of  wrath,  like 
rain  against  the  window-pane ;  cool  of  itself,  yet  betokening 
the  fire  of  those  inward  forces  that  drove  it,  by  its  breath- 
less haste.  There  was  scarcely  the  width  of  a  thread  to 
divide  her  phrases ;  the  sentences  fitted  together,  groove  by 
groove,  like  wainscot,  in  a  solid  treble  paneling  against  any 
interruption  real  or  apprehended. 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  55 

"  And  I  told  her,"  she  pattered  on,  "  that  you  had  promised 
to  love  me  and  care  for  me.  And  I  said :  '  He  is  my  cousin, 
after  all.  '  " 

"  Aye,"  cut  in  the  housekeeper,  "  and  what's  more,  she 
said  I  was  a  liar.  We'll  have  that  proved.  I'se  not  used  to 
being  called  syke  names  by  childer.  We'll  see  who's  liar 
and  all.  You  can  soon  settle  that.  Tell  her  while  I'se  stood 
here  listening  to  ye." 

"  Hush,  hush  .  .  ."  said  the  Doctor,  with  chastening 
severity.  "  Let  us  have  no  words  here.  Anne,  try  and  con- 
trol yourself.  You  are  old  enough  to  know  better  than  to 
quarrel  with  a  child.  Besides  ...  in  the  room,  too. 
Let  us  have  no  quarreling  or  anger.  Let  us  go  back  quietly  to 
the  kitchen  again  and  dismiss  this  unpleasantness.  I  must 
get  my  breakfast  at  once  and  drive  away." 

"  Tell  her,  then,"  insisted  the  girl,  "  that  she  is  not  to  try 
and  stop  me  from  coming  to  see  you." 

"  Aye,  and  tell  her  what  you  telt  me,"  added  the  house- 
keeper, seasoning  the  meat  of  his  difficulty  with  a  malific 
zest.  "  About  somebody  being  kept  oot  o'  road.  Tell  her 
that  and  all." 

"  I  will  not  tell  anybody  anything,"  exclaimed  the  Doctor. 
"  I  won't  enter  into  it.  If  you  wish  to  quarrel,  you  must 
quarrel  away  from  me,  and  out  of  my  hearing.  I  cannot 
allow  quarreling  in  this  room.  There,  there,"  he  added, 
drawing  his  arm  resolutely  out  of  the  girl's  possession,  with 
an  effort  to  simulate  indulgence.  "  Go  back  with  Anne,  and 
do  as  Anne  tells  you.  I  can  trust  Anne.  She  will  be  very 
kind  and  good  to  you,  I  know.  Anne  .  .  .  take  her, 
please." 

"  I  won't  go  back  with  Anne,"  the  girl  protested  rebel- 
liously.  "  Not  till  you  tell  her  the  truth.  If  you  say  I  am 
to  live  in  the  kitchen  and  wash  the  pots,  and  keep  out  of 
your  sight  .  .  .  because  you  don't  want  me  .  .  . 


56  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

and  don't  love  me  .  .  ."  Her  pride,  which  had  sustained 
her  on  the  pillars  of  wrath  all  this  time,  subsided  at  this,  and 
the  tears  commenced  to  well,  slow  and  large,  through  her 
lashes,  to  the  accompaniment  of  a  faltering  voice.  "  If  you 
say  this  .  .  .  I'll  go  back,  and  never  come  near  you  or 
trouble  you  any  more.  But  I  wish  I  was  dead  and  with  my 
mother,"  she  added  passionately,  and  buried  her  grief  in  a 
convulsive  handkerchief. 

"  Noo  then,"  threw  in  the  housekeeper  triumphantly, 
"  what  plainer  speaking  do  you  want  ?  Hilda  Brennan  her- 
sen  couldn't  have  spoke  it  straighter.  Tell  bairn  what  you 
do  mean  —  for  Lord  i'  heaven  knows.  I  don't.  You  see 
for  yoursen  I'se  not  good  enough  for  her.  She  dizn't  want 
to  be  bothered  wi'  an  aud  woman  like  me,  that  has  to  sop 
all  her  crusts  —  never  mind  what  care  I've  ta'en  on  her.  She 
knows  who's  her  friends,  and  who  loves  her,  and  who  wants 
to  see  her  and  speak  tiv  her  —  just  like  her  mother  did. 
What  more  can  you  want?  Onnybody  mud  know  whose 
bairn  she  was." 

The  Doctor  turned  from  the  housekeeper's  sour  face  of 
mockery  to  the  tear-stained  countenance  of  the  child.  Aye ! 
There  was  Hilda  Brennan  sure  enough;  the  Hilda  Brennan 
of  impulse  and  passion,  of  love  and  hate,  of  purpose  melted 
in  tears,  and  good  intentions  merged  in  wrath.  There  was 
the  miniature  of  his  heart's  one  happiness  —  and  his  life's 
deep  sorrow  —  gazing  dumbly  now  at  his  lips  for  their  ver- 
dict, through  the  arrested  wetness  of  weeping.  And  his 
own  faltering  purpose  stumbled  and  foundered  in  those  tears 
as  it  had  stumbled  last  night  —  as  it  had  ever  stumbled,  years 
ago,  before  the  Hilda  Brennan  of  older  days. 

"  If  she  wishes  to  bring  my  coffee  in,  Anne,"  he  hazarded, 
".  .  .  and  to  make  herself  useful  .  .  ." 

"  Aye.  Go  on,"  said  the  housekeeper  unhelpfully.  "  I'se 
listening." 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  57 

The  Doctor  winced  and  faltered.  "  Well  .  .  ."  said 
he,  and  the  housekeeper  echoed  his  "  Well  "  with  a  malicious 
intensity. 

The  Doctor  made  one  courageous  mouthful  of  his  un- 
palatable meal,  and  bolted  it.  "  It's  a  matter  of  really  no  im- 
portance," he  said,  "  after  all.  I  see  no  reason  why  we  should 
stop  her,  Anne." 

"  Who  did  want  to  stop  her?  "  asked  the  housekeeper,  with 
a  condemnatory  eye  upon  him. 

"  You  did !  "  struck  in  the  girl,  wiping  away  her  tears  with 
hands  knuckled  up  for  the  fray  again.  "  And  you  would 
have  stopped  me  if  I  hadn't  pushed  you  against  the  wall." 

"  Aye,  there  you  are !  "  said  the  housekeeper,  with  grim 
gratification.  "  There's  Me  for  you.  And  there's  Hilda 
Brennan  as  fair  as  fair.  And  there's  You  as  you  always 
was,  and  as  you  will  be  to  your  dying  day.  Do  your  own 
work  i'  future,"  she  added,  with  a  spasm  of  wrath  and  mor- 
tified pride,  "  and  give  your  own  orders.  I  don't  want  to  be 
made  into  a  liar  by  a  chit  of  a  thing  like  that." 

"  Tell  her  I  may  bring  your  coffee  in  now,"  said  the  girl, 
clutching  greedily  at  her  triumph,  and  displaying  it  with 
the  unholy  pride  of  the  conqueror.  "  Tell  her,  Cousin 
Humphrey.  And  tell  her  not  to  stop  me  or  interfere  with 
me  again.  She  did  not  write  for  me.  It  was  you." 

He  tendered  a  glance  of  shamed  apology  to  the  house- 
keeper, armed  now  with  a  steely  and  inaccessible  smile. 

"  By  all  means  ...  let  her  bring  the  coffee  in,"  he 
said  magnanimously.  And  added :  "  It  will  save  your  feet. 
Anne." 

"  My  feet !  "  cried  the  housekeeper.  "  Much  you  care 
about  my  feet.  It  mud  have  come  better  fro'  you  before 
ringing  yon  bedroom  bell  this  morning." 

"  There,"  said  the  girl.  "  You  hear  what  Cousin  Hum- 
phrey says.  I  am  to  bring  his  coffee  in." 


58  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

"  Aye,"  exclaimed  the  housekeeper,  as  the  child  sped  out 
to  the  task.  "  You  think  a  deal  more  o'  yon  coffee  than 
you  do  o'  your  poor  dead  mother.  Nobody  thinks  o'  their 
mothers  nowadays  —  except  aud  women  that's  lived  wi'  them 
and  worked  for  them."  She  turned  upon  the  Doctor  with  a 
final  explosion. 

"  Are  you  content  noo  ?  "  she  asked  with  a  gust  of  passion 
blowing  her  withered  cheeks  like  faded  autumn  leaves. 
".  .  .  Noo  that  you've  had  your  own  way  and  gotten  yon 
little  selfish  thing  to  bring  your  breakfast  in  —  that  nobody's 
laid  on  table  but  me  these  last  fourteen  years.  She'll  be 
sittin'  at  table  wi'  you  next,  as  bold  as  brass,  and  ruling 
ower  place ;  for  bairn  is  spit  of  her  mother,  and  onny  lass 
can  twist  you  round  her  finger  that  tries.  But  mark  my 
words,  she'll  pay  your  fondness  some  day,  and  in  her  moth- 
er's coin.  Then,  mayhap,  you'll  be  glad  for  Anne  to  bring 
your  breakfast  in  again  —  feet  or  no  feet." 


VIII 

SITTING  moodily  at  his  table,  the  Doctor  consummated  a 
zestless  meal.  The  memory  of  that  strange  impulsive 
scene  floated  persistently  over  the  breakfast  table,  and 
troubled  him  with  problems  of  the  future ;  fibers  of  fear  and 
apprehension  wove  their  way  through  his  gray  thinking.  To 
himself  he  seemed  already  like  a  fly,  with  no  defence  but  an 
unterrifying  buzz,  involved  in  the  web  of  destiny,  along  whose 
subtle,  sinister  threads  this  child  of  Providence  ran  surefooted 
with  the  speed  and  dread  dexterity  of  a  spider.  Do  what  he 
would  now,  this  blue-eyed  entity  was  written  on  the  tablets 
of  his  being.  To  think  of  the  dead  woman  henceforth  was 
to  conjure  visions  of  the  child,  like  two  phases  of  one  nature. 
And  the  child  had  given  a  living  significance  to  those  once 
familiar  lineaments ;  had  translated  the  dead  language  of  the 
past  into  the  tongue  of  the  living  present.  Hilda  Brennan 
was  not  dead  in  spirit,  only  changed  in  substance ;  replaced 
among  the  tender  years  of  youth,  it  almost  seemed,  to  run 
again  her  misdirected  course  along  the  green  sward  of  life, 
and  make  fresh  contest  for  the  cup  of  mortal  happiness  and 
joy. 

And  he? 

Ah !  The  thought  of  his  own  lost  years  embittered  him ; 
stirred  up  the  brooding  gray  ness  of  his  mind  with  a  new 
implement,  to  a  deeper  consistency  of  trouble.  He,  it  seemed, 
must  ever  be  a  fugitive  from  self ;  ever  among  those  whose 
memory  burns  behind  them  like  a  prairie  fire,  cutting  them 
off  from  all  past  happiness,  and  obscuring  all  their  future 
with  clouds  of  wreathing  darkness  and  despair.  The  reflec- 

59 


60  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

tion,  with  a  train  of  others,  put  a  termination  to  his  tasteless 
meal,  and  sent  him  to  the  chinking  Tantalus  once  more. 

"  Let's  have  her  sent  away,"  he  said  with  bitterness  to  his 
heart,  "  and  make  an  end  of  it." 

In  his  own  good  time  the  aged  groom  led  round  the  anti- 
quated mare  to  the  Doctor's  door,  and  the  Doctor  vacated  his 
room,  fearing  the  hall  as  the  converging  square  for  many 
dangers,  and  preparing  resolution  with  a  soundless  whistle 
that  hovered  upon  his  puckered  lips  like  the  ghost  of  a  dead 
tune  piped  years  ago.  Nor  was  the  fear  without  foundation, 
for  no  sooner  had  his  foot  stirred  the  first  echo  on  the  gritty 
flagstones  than  he  heard  all  the  commotion  of  internal  doors 
again,  and  the  green  baize  panels  yawned  suddenly  to  the 
apparition  of  the  girl.  The  whistle  slid  off  his  lips  and  his 
heart  beat,  as  with  a  hardened  mouth  he  scrutinized  the  hall- 
stand  for  his  hat. 

"  Cousin  Humphrey  .  .  ."  said  the  girl.  There  was 
the  slight  catch  in  the  voice  of  supplication,  as  though  a  tear 
had  slipped  into  the  two  words.  In  her  black  frock,  with 
her  hands  clasped  dubiously  and  her  blue  eyes  swimming  in 
timid  wonder,  she  looked  very  frail,  very  troubled,  very 
lonely.  "  Are  you  going  away  ? "  she  asked.  In  a  grave 
voice,  smoothing  his  dingy  hat  with  his  coat-sleeve,  he  told 
her  he  was  going  out  on  his  rounds. 

"Shall  you  be  very  —  very  long?"  she  inquired  wist- 
fully. 

He  told  her  he  could  not  say.  There  was  much  sickness 
about.  Very  much  sickness  about.  What  kind  ?  Every 
kind.  But  she  must  stay  with  Anne.  And  all  at  once,  when 
he  was  preparing  to  put  on  his  hat  and  leave  her,  she  had 
sprung  at  him  again  with  her  two  hands  clasped  about  his 
arm,  and  begged  him  in  a  rapid,  urgent  voice — 

"  Take  me  with  you  Cousin  Humphrey.  I  don't  want  to 
stay  with  Anne.  Anne  hates  me,  and  says  I  have  made 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  61 

more  mischief  in  one  morning  than  I  can  hope  to  undo  if  I 
pray  every  night  for  a  month.  Now  when  I  speak  to  her 
she  only  says  '  Eh  '  ?  and  when  I  say  it  again  she  says  noth- 
ing at  all.  She  told  me  you  were  so  angry  with  me  that  you 
could  not  eat  your  breakfast  —  but  you're  not  angry  with  me, 
are  you?  Say  you're  not  angry  with  me,  Cousin  Humphrey, 
and  take  me  with  you.  I  am  so  lonely  and  miserable." 

Her  hands,  binding  him  in  an  impulsive  embrace,  restrained 
him  from  putting  on  his  hat.  He  held  it,  still  extended, 
while  his  eyes  sank  helplessly  on  the  face  suspended  beneath 
his  own  —  Hilda  Brennan's  eyes,  and  Hilda  Brennan's 
brow. 

"  No,  no,"  he  said,  contending  through  the  rapid  negatives 
for  re-conquest  of  himself  against  the  thraldom  of  that  child- 
ish face.  "  I  cannot  take  you.  I  am  going  on  business. 
Stay  here  with  Anne,  and  try  and  be  friends  with  her."  The 
girl,  though  shaken  from  his  arm,  retained  her  appeal  by  a 
timid  corner  of  his  sleeve.  "  I  will  be  good,  Cousin  Hum- 
phrey," she  urged,  though  with  a  sinking  scale  of  confidence, 
as  though  pleading  a  lost  cause,  in  her  lips  and  eyes.  "  I 
will  not  talk.  I  will  not  trouble  you." 

He  said  No,  again ;  that  it  was  impossible.  He  was  going 
on  business  —  serious  business  —  and  shook  her  off  at  last. 
The  small  face,  larger  while  the  rays  of  eagerness  sustained 
and  irradiated  it,  dwindled  through  the  shades  of  disappoint- 
ment to  crestfallen  despair.  Almost  in  a  moment  the  dark 
clouds  rolled  up  over  her  white  brow,  and  the  tears  started 
hotly  to  her  lashes  —  tears  of  grief  in  rebellion,  more  bellig- 
erent than  sorrowful. 

"  You  hate  me,"  she  cried.  "  Anne  said  so,  and  she  knows. 
You  do  not  want  to  love  me  or  care  for  me.  You  only  want 
to  get  rid  of  me.  I  wish  I  had  never  come." 

They  were  still  modeled  in  their  respective  attitude  of 
despair  and  astonishment  when  the  part-open  door  —  all 


62  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

framed  round  its  three  sides  with  a  resplendent  glow  of 
sunlight  —  creaked  on  its  hinges  to  the  impact  of  some  heavy 
body,  and  the  figure  of  Pridgeon  lunged  into  the  hall.  Two 
shades  darker  about  his  blue  cheeks  and  chin  than  on  the 
previous  evening,  the  smile,  on  the  contrary,  was  infinitely 
wider  (though  more  oblique),  and  his  articulation  seemed  to 
be  transferred  from  the  region  of  the  lips  to  some  internal 
locality  nearer  the  root  of  the  nose  by  the  sound  of  it.  In- 
deed, he  scarcely  appeared  to  utter  his  words  at  all,  but  to 
let  them  slide  through  the  wide-apertured  smile  —  as  though 
he  were  shooting  coals  down  a  grating  —  with  a  glib  ease  of 
production  that  lent  an  engaging  quality  of  friendliness  and 
candor  to  all  he  said. 

"  Hello ! "  he  cried  genially  at  sight  of  the  two  figures, 
and,  on  a  swift  second  scrutiny  of  the  girl's  wet  eyes,  "  What ! 
Tears  again.  Lord  bless  us!  You've  some  queer  ways  of 
passing  your  time." 

The  Doctor  veered  round  to  Pridgeon,  with  the  sudden 
movement  of  one  who  finds  a  welcome  target  for  his  wrath. 

"  There's  a  bell-pull  outside,  Pridgeon,"  he  snapped. 

"  Aye,"  said  Pridgeon.  "  She's  there  still  for  anything 
I've  done  at  her." 

"  In  future,"  said  the  Doctor  hotly,  "  it  would  be  better  if 
you'd  make  use  of  it." 

"  What  the  devil !  "  retorted  Pridgeon.  "  If  that's  all  you 
mean,  I'll  give  her  a  ring  as  I  go  out."  He  clapped  a 
familiar  hand  on  the  girl's  golden-brown  head,  and  turned 
her  down-dropped  eyes  up  to  his,  with  a  back  pressure  of 
her  brow.  "  Well,  lass,"  he  said,  in  fluent  affability,  pouring 
the  smile  over  her  like  rich  cream  from  a  tilted  ewer. 
"  Thoo's  gotten  some  bonny  blue  eyes  o'  thy  own.  What's 
amiss  wi'  thee  ti-morn,  eh  ?  " 

The  girl's  lids  quivered,  and  she  shot  a  querying  glance  at 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  63 

the  Doctor,  as  though  seeking  whether  the  answer  lay  with 
him  or  with  her. 

"  I  wanted  Cousin  Humphrey  to  take  me  with  him,"  she 
said,  after  a  pause. 

"  And  why  not  ?  "  concurred  the  farmer  heartily.  "  Of 
course  he  will." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  man  ?  "  said  the  Doctor.  "  Is  this 
any  business  of  yours  ?  " 

"  Not  a  bit,"  said  the  farmer  without  vexation  or  concern. 
"  But  any  business  is  better  than  farming  on  syke  a  day  as 
this.  Let's  all  be  doctors  for  yance.  Doctoring's  the  trade ! 
We'll  all  gan  together  to  Kenham  Beach  and  make  an  outing 
of  it." 

"  Look  here,  Pridgeon,"  he  said,  with  reproving  anger,  "  it's 
out  of  the  question.  Have  a  little  decency.  Remember  the 
child  has  only  just  buried  her  mother." 

"  Why,  to  be  sure,"  said  Pridgeon.  "  All  the  more  reason 
why  the  drive  will  do  her  good,  and  help  her  to  forget  it. 
You  don't  mean  to  say  you'd  leave  her  alone  in  the  house 
with  Anne  ?  " 

"  Anne  is  an  excellent  woman,"  said  the  Doctor  sternly. 

"  You  called  her  a  damned  old  fool  last  night,"  Pridgeon 
taxed  him.  "  And  I'm  not  saying  you're  wrong."  He  turned 
to  the  girl.  "  There,  there,"  he  said  in  consolatory  tones, 
"  it's  all  right.  Get  your  hat  on,  lass,  and  let's  be  moving." 

She  showed  an  irresolute  countenance  between  the  Doc- 
tor's gray  face  and  the  bronze  expanse  of  smile,  seeking  con- 
firmation of  the  order;  keen  with  new-kindled  hope. 

"  May  I  —  Cousin  Humphrey  ?  "  she  asked,  in  a  small  voice, 
and  laying  a  persuasive  hand  upon  his  arm  once  more. 
"May  I?" 

It  was  upon  the  Doctor's  lips  to  forbid  her  with  a  last 
direct  word,  and  to  turn  upon  the  farmer  in  wrathful  rebuke 


64  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

as  soon  as  she  should  be  gone,  but  constrained  between  the 
unyielding  smile  and  the  girl's  eager  lips,  he  checked  the 
impulse,  and  swallowed  resolve  with  a  gulp. 

Sunfleet  saw  them  returning  home  some  hours  later  —  two 
boisterously  drunken  men  squeezing  a  girl's  white  face  be- 
tween converging  shoulders  in  a  swaying  buggy. 


IX 

IF  the  Doctor  has  had  a  difficult  problem  to  solve  in  his 
enforced  reception  of  the  girl,  he  has  done  little  towards 
its  solution  by  this  injudicious  drive.  On  the  following  morn- 
ing he  rises  out  of  chaos  like  a  cheap  new  world ;  created  on 
a  pitiable  plan  of  economies ;  ill  assembled,  and  creaking  very 
badly  at  the  joints.  Memory  discovers  him  by  daybreak 
very  naked  and  ashamed.  Too  ashamed,  almost,  for  shame ; 
at  that  basic  level  of  reality  where,  far  below  the  clouds  of 
illusion,  man  has  no  pride  wherewith  to  mortify  abasement. 

Consequently  he  rings  no  bells,  affects  no  attitude  of  dogma 
or  dignity,  but  sneaks  down-stairs  unshaven  and,  feeling  the 
weight  of  his  guilt  upon  him,  makes  his  way  into  the  one- 
time inviolable  surgery  so  seldom  used;  where  now  cigar 
boxes  and  a  litter  of  old  medical  journals,  unopened,  in  their 
postal  wrappings  of  ages  back;  and  surgical  samples;  and 
wine  lists,  and  a  general  miscellany  of  accumulated  rubbish, 
submerging  the  secretaire,  furnish  a  memorial  of  profes- 
sional decay.  The  sacred  custom  of  the  room  is  written  over 
with  a  hundred  extemporaneous  usages ;  its  sanctity  violated ; 
its  dignity  crumpled  like  a  crushed  hat.  No  one  with  the  least 
experience  of  active  consulting  rooms  could  stimulate  the 
ghost  of  a  shiver  in  this  deglorified  spot.  Farm  lasses,  per- 
haps, with  great  red  hands  laid  over  a  swollen  cheek,  might 
sit  on  an  edge  of  chair  and  face  the  door-handle  with  pangs 
of  mortal  apprehension ;  or  wide-mouthed  boys,  with  rolling 
eyes  and  faces  all  awry,  burst  into  snivels  and  shake  unre- 
strainedly at  the  tether-end  of  maternal  arm,  on  hearing 
through  the  sighing  keyhole  the  dull  closing  of  some  porten- 
s  65 


66  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

tous  inner  door.  But  sufferers  of  discernment,  educated 
to  the  soul-crushing  gravity  of  town  consulting  rooms,  where 
liveried  men  or  rustling  maids  take  away  one's  name  like  the 
last  spark  of  mortal  hope,  and  sepulcher  human  anxiety  in  a 
sun-exhausted  chamber  —  such  as  these  would  triumph  over 
the  poor  array  of  professional  terrors  in  this  Sunfleet  apart- 
ment. There  is  no  life  about  it.  It  is  a  dead  room ;  a  mu- 
seum specimen  of  an  extinct  species,  with  the  dust  in  its  dry 
fur ;  barkless  and  biteless. 

But  if  the  Doctor  has  shuffled  into  his  lair  this  morning 
with  a  minimum  of  noise,  sharp  ears  have  been  pricking  the 
silence  like  needles  for  his  location,  and  find  him  at  last  in 
his  refuge.  He  has  only  time  to  clutch  a  handful  of  journals, 
and  commence  the  belated  task  of  stripping  their  wrappers, 
when  the  housekeeper,  after  one  brief  pause  at  the  door, 
thrusts  it  open  with  an  experimental  arm,  and  obtains  visual 
confirmation  of  her  suspicions  with  a  subsiding  "  Aye."  She 
stands  to  the  discovery  for  some  moments  in  silence,  running 
her  eyes  over  the  Doctor's  every  curve  and  dimension ;  ab- 
sorbing him  into  a  gaze  of  scorn. 

"  Don't  say  nowt ! "  she  bids  him  at  length,  making  with 
her  voice  as  if  she  would  hold  him  afar  —  metaphorically  in 
the  tongs  —  away  from  contact  with  reputable  life.  "Don't 
gie  me  a  word.  Your  face  says  plenty."  He  hears  the 
ghost  of  a  voice  beyond  the  door,  like  a  whisper  in  the  corn 
stubble,  breathe :  "  Anne,  is  he  there  ?  " 

"  Gan  your  ways,"  says  the  housekeeper,  turning  swiftly  at 
the  sound.  "  Doctor's  busy." 

The  voice,  fallen  under  some  strange  spell  of  awed  sub- 
mission since  yesterday,  makes  no  demur.  From  her  place 
by  the  door  the  housekeeper  resumes  her  attitude  of  in- 
vestigation, holding  the  firebrand  of  a  blazing  look  over  the 
object  of  her  scrutiny. 

"  No  wonder  you  take  yourself  to  this  spot,"  she  continues. 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  67 

"  In  hopes  nobody  will  hear  ye.  But  I'se  not  deaf  yet.  Do 
you  call  this  a  time  for  breakfast  ?  " 

"  I  want  no  breakfast,"  says  the  Doctor,  not  angrily  or 
dictatorially,  but  in  a  voice  too  listless  to  contend  or  argue. 
"  I  only  want  to  be  left  alone,  Anne,  please." 

If  he  had  striven  with  her  by  a  look  or  an  inflection,  she 
would  have  thrown  all  the  vitriol  of  her  wrath  upon  him 
then,  for  she  had  it  phialed.  But  something  in  his  attitude 
of  surrender  undid  her  woman's  heart ;  and  the  silent  doors 
of  sympathy  opened  within  her  like  wings.  She  saw  his 
mother  through  that  tired  face  as  through  a  dim  window ; 
saw  the  boy,  too,  as  he  had  been  in  many  a  by-gone  day,  and 
all  at  once  —  keyed  by  the  events  of  the  past  night  and  her 
accumulated  emotion  of  these  recent  days  —  she  burst  forth 
into  tears. 

"  How  long  do  you  expect  to  live,"  she  sniveled,  "  at  this 
rate?  I  seed  the  self  and  same  look  on  ye,  just  this  moment, 
that  your  poor  mother  took  to  grave  wi'  her." 

The  Doctor  threw  down  the  last  stripped  journal.  "  The 
sooner  I'm  gone  the  better,  I  think,  Anne,"  he  endorsed, 
with  tired  sincerity.  "  Life  has  meant  little  enough  to  me 
these  twelve  years  past,  and  you  know  it.  If  I've  wished  my 
self  out  of  it  once,  I've  wished  it  a  hundred  times." 

"  Aye,  and  a  nice  selfish  wish  and  all,"  the  housekeeper 
sniffed,  aproning"  the  tears  from  her  withered  eyes.  "  I'd  be 
ashamed  o'  syke  a  wish.  You,  a  young  man,  to  say  you'd 
liever  be  i'  your  coffin  than  mend  your  ways,  and  think  o' 
leaving  an  aud  woman  like  me  to  face  world  alone,  wi'  nobody 
to  grumble  at  nor  look  after.  I'se  loved  you  and  looked  after 
you  all  time  sin'  your  mother  died.  Aye,  and  my  heart's  bled 
for  you  many  a  time  when  I  looked  at  ye  and  wished  you 
mud  cry  like  a  woman.  For  I  tells  myself,  when  Almighty 
won't  gie  men  the  comfort  o'  tears,  who's  to  blame  'em  when 
they  gie  way  to  bad  language  and  drink  ?  I  won't  deny  that's 


68  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

been  my  thought  when  I  seed  change  coming  ower  ye,  and 
God  i'  heaven  knows  you've  been  tried  hard  —  but  what's  to 
become  o'  me  when  aught  happens  ye  ?  " 

In  the  zeal  with  which  she  was  applying  her  apron  now  to 
her  eyes  and  nose,  in  a  sort  of  indiscriminate  attempt  to 
check  the  flow  of  liquid  sentiment  at  all  its  channels,  she 
did  not  perceive  the  gray  face  peering  round  the  door  frame 
by  her  side,  or  the  round  blue  eyes  that  drank  in  the  spectacle 
of  the  seated  man.  And  the  man,  merged  in  the  chair  before 
his  littered  writing  table,  with  his  face  dropped  in  the  set 
fortitude  of  despair,  as  though  gazing  into  the  deeps  of  his 
own  nature,  without  other  emotion  than  the  dogged  acceptance 
of  a  past  beyond  recall  —  the  man  did  not  see  the  small  dark- 
clad  figure  until  it  had  stolen  past  the  grim  guardian  of  the 
door  and  flung  itself  suddenly  upon  him  with  the  impulsive 
affection  which  neither  his  own  conduct  nor  outward  circum- 
stance, by  what  it  seemed,  could  ever  quell. 

"  Cousin  Humphrey,"  she  breathed  hotly  into  his  ear,  ex- 
hibiting the  tears  of  a  resurrected  terror  about  her  wide 
blue  eyes.  "  Oh,  Cousin  Humphrey.  Promise  me  you'll 
never  do  it  again.  Promise  you'll  never,  never  do  it  again. 
You  don't  know  how  you  frightened  us  last  night.  We  were 
terrified.  Anne  said  she  had  never  seen  you  half  so  drunk 
in  all  her  life  before." 

"  /  said  so ! "  cried  the  housekeeper,  casting  her  tears  like 
a  shawl.  "  How  dare  you !  Come  your  ways  out  o'  surgery 
this  minute  —  before  you  catch  a  fever.  I  said  nought  about 
his  being  drunk,  and  if  you'd  been  properly  brought  up  you 
wouldn't  'a  known  what  was  amiss  wi'  him.  Drunk  or  sober, 
it's  no  business  o'  yours.  Grown  up  folks  can  please  their- 
sens,  surely  to  goodness,  without  being  answerable  to  childer. 
Is  Doctor  to  be  ta'en  to  task  by  syke  as  you,  wi'  frock  end  no 
lower  than  your  knees  ?  " 

While  the  housekeeper  launched  her  indignation,  the  girl, 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  69 

unmoved,  studied  the  careworn  face  she  held ;  smoothed  with 
a  flat  hand  stray  wisps  of  the  tumbled  hair ;  passed  the  test 
of  two  tentative  fingers  up  the  Doctor's  unshorn  cheek ; 
tucked  the  loop  of  protruding  tie  into  its  place  against  the 
shirt  front  —  all  in  a  kind  of  feminine  parenthesis,  as  if  she 
had  been  ministering  to  a  child.  And  the  timidity  that 
had  covered  her  approach  to  him  was  shed  in  the  ministra- 
tion, like  a  garment.  She  was  all-practical  in  a  moment ; 
appropriative,  possessive,  willful;  a  blue-eyed  girl  without 
the  weakness  of  tears,  holding  the  man  with  the  stub- 
bornness of  an  opinion  that  nothing  external  could  shake  or 
loosen. 

"  I  don't  care,"  she  retorted  over  her  shoulder,  keeping 
her  eyes  still  in  attention  on  the  Doctor's  face.  "  He  was 
drunk,  and  he  knows  it.  He  was  drunk  at  Kenham  what- 
you-call-it,  and  coming  home  he  drove  the  wheel  over  that 
big  black  stone  where  those  roads  cross.  If  I  hadn't  screamed 
and  thrown  my  arms  round  him  we  should  have  both  been 
flung  out  and  killed.  And  you  screamed  too,  last  night, 
Anne,  when  you  thought  he  was  falling  over  the  banisters." 
She  tightened  the  ring  of  warm  flesh  and  blood  about  his 
neck,  and  drew  her  lips  nearer  to  his.  "  But  you'll  promise 
me,"  she  said  in  a  more  urgent,  personal  tone,  pouting  her 
lips  to  supplication,  and  constraining  him  with  every  pressure 
of  blue  eye  — "  you'll  promise  me,  Cousin  Humphrey,  never, 
never,  never  to  do  it  again,  but  to  love  me,  and  be  kind  to 
me,  and  take  care  of  me,  as  you  promised  you  would."  She 
lengthened  the  chain  of  arm  and  looked  at  him  with  a  silent 
intentness,  as  though  his  response  would  be  a  visible  mani- 
festation suffusing  all  his  countenance. 

"Love  you,  and  be  kind  to  you,  and  take  care  of  you!" 
echoed  the  housekeeper  with  jealous  scorn.  "  Can  you  think 
of  nobody  in  the  world  but  yoursen?  Is  Doctor  to  regulate 
his  ways  just  to  please  a  bit  of  a  bairn  that  he  never  clapped 


70  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

eyes  on  while  yesterday  ?  My  wod !  He's  gotten  other  folk 
to  think  about." 

"  Yes,  for  me,"  reiterated  the  girl  stoutly,  without  retract- 
tion.  "  Because  he  wrote  for  me,  and  brought  me  here  on 
purpose.  He'll  be  good  to  you  too,  Anne,"  she  vouchsafed 
in  a  side-voice,  scenting  the  blood  of  rivalry  and  resentment 
that  beat  in  the  housekeeper's  veins.  "  But  that's  different. 
You're  not  his  cousin,  like  me." 

"  Cousin !  "  cried  the  housekeeper.  The  sight  of  that  un- 
disputed embrace  stung  her  in  the  vulnerable  quarters  of  her 
jealousy.  "If  you'd  any  spirit  of  your  own,"  she  charged 
the  Doctor,  "  you'd  bid  lass  take  her  arms  away  from  your 
neck.  What's  use  me  standing  up  for  you  and  ordering  her 
out  o'  surgery  when  you  tek  no  notice?  Have  you  onny 
pride  left?" 

In  a  strange  dispassionate  state  the  Doctor  had  heard, 
somewhere  in  the  kenning  of  his  consciousness,  the  ebb  and 
flow  of  words.  The  tides  of  rival  cherishment  had  rocked 
him  gently  to  and  fro,  like  a  half-drowned  man ;  beyond 
interest,  without  volition  to  stir  hand  or  foot  in  his  own 
behalf ;  a  gray  dream  wrapped  up  in  the  murmurous  surge  of 
the  sea.  The  girl  by  his  side,  ever  smoothing  his  hair  or 
tracing  the  arch  of  his  eyebrows,  or  pressing  out  with  finger- 
tips the  lines  graven  recently  upon  his  forehead,  was  no 
longer  a  raw  sore,  opening  the  burning  edges  of  the  past. 
In  his  present  mood  her  nearness  was  even  consolatory ;  her 
physical  touches  soothing  to  a  brow  racked  with  the  penalties 
of  memory  and  excess.  He  was  not  occupying  the  craven 
stool  of  repentance  that  is  the  refuge  of  grosser  sinners,  who 
surrender  themselves  to  a  tortured  humility  so  long  as  their 
fleshly  punishment  is  maintained.  But  he  had  arrived,  since 
this  last  night  —  after  twelve  years  of  deviation  —  at  a  sort 
of  nether  end  of  himself,  whose  blank  walls  seemed  to  defy 
all  further  passage  in  this  direction.  And  while  the  woman 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  71 

and  the  child  commingled  their  speeches,  he  asked  himself 
a  dim  "What  now?"  With  whom  was  he  waging  war? 
Since  the  source  of  his  life's  error  lay  under  the  sod,  with  lips 
plaited  in  peace,  and  a  heart  molded  to  penitence  and  grati- 
tude, was  he  forever  to  drink  those  stagnant  bitter  waters 
that  had  once  welled  up  from  the  dark  soil  of  a  living  injury? 
Was  his  mind's  war  with  the  woman  to  press  its  operations 
beyond  the  frontiers  of  the  grave,  losing  its  first  cause  in 
an  endless  civil  strife  of  selves?  Or  was  there  to  be  a 
truce ;  a  sounding  of  the  silver  trumpet ;  an  armistice  with  the 
soul? 

He  heard  the  girl's  voice  far  off  on  the  distant  boundaries 
of  his  thinking  — 

"  Cousin  Humphrey,"  repeated  beseechingly,  nearer  and 
nearer  still,  till  it  grew,  urgent  and  vital,  under  his  lips  again. 
"Cousin  Humphrey,  you  promise  me?" 

He  took  one  new  look  into  the  clear  pools  of  blue  eye,  and 
rose,  with  a  thin  relaxation  of  lips  that  was  this  morning 
his  nearest  emblem  of  a  smile. 

"  Yesterday,"  he  said  slowly,  "  I  was  —  well,  I  was  horribly 
drunk.  There's  no  use  blinking  it.  Anne  was  right.  But 
I  didn't  mean  to  frighten  you  —  and  I'm  sorry.  I'll  do  my 
best  never  to  frighten  you  in  that  way  again." 

"  You  promise,  Cousin  Humphrey  ? "  she  taxed  him 
eagerly.  "  It's  a  promise  ?  "  and  squeezed  his  arm  as  though 
to  coerce  assent. 

"  So  far  as  promises  are  worth  anything,"  he  said  bitterly 
(and  when  he  said  that  his  mind  reverted  to  another  promise 
which  had  availed  little).  "  Yes,  it's  a  promise." 

The  girl  turned  to  the  doorway,  full  of  jubilation  and  con- 
quest. 

"  It's  a  promise,"  she  cried  out  to  the  housekeeper. 
"  Cousin  Humphrey  has  promised  me,  Anne." 

The    face   of   the   housekeeper  absorbed   the   message   as 


72  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

though  it  were  ink  and  her  cheeks  blotting-paper  that  grew 
dark  with  absorption. 

"  Aye !  "  she  exclaimed,  "  it's  a  promise.  And  Lord  help 
him  keep  it.  But  he  won't  look  me  fair  between  eyes  of  a 
long  while  if  he's  any  shame  left  in  him,"  she  muttered  to 
herself. 


X 

THE  summer  sun  burns  his  passage  through  a  succession 
of  August  days,  weaving  a  golden  track  into  the  milk- 
blue  skies  of  October,  and  still  the  girl  does  not  go  to  school. 
Instead,  she  takes  root  in  the  Doctor's  household  like  a 
weed  of  dissension,  stirs  the  housekeeper  to  wrath  and  the 
Doctor  to  concern;  and  yet  the  wayward  fragrance  of  the 
blossom  wins  their  oversight  of  its  ranker  qualities.  With 
the  property  of  the  weed  she  thrives  and  multiplies  in  her 
privileges  exceedingly ;  cropping  up  in  every  department 
with  insidious  leaves  and  pushful  stubborn  stalks  that  contest 
all  efforts  at  dislodgment  or  repression.  She  sprawls  over 
discipline  like  a  wild  briar ;  strides  over  rules  with  a  certain 
rebellious  grace  as  though  they  were  five-barred  gates.  Her 
impulsive  nature  pursues  a  pathway  of  its  own,  following  its 
track  by  scents  of  logic  unperceivable  to  those  who  watch 
her.  The  love-quest  of  her  so-called  cousin  Humphrey, 
fiercely  and  sedulously  prosecuted,  gives  the  ostensible  im- 
pulse to  her  coursing,  but  that  wayward  heart  runs  aside  to 
many  baffling  pathlets  of  emotion.  Now  she  forsakes  the 
housekeeper's  table  in  petted  wrath  and  flings  herself  upon 
the  Doctor's  care  with  all  her  bag-o'-tricks  of  sentiment  and 
passion.  Anne  is  an  old  fool.  Just  because  of  this,  or  just 
because  of  that,  Anne  has  said  so  and  so,  or  done  the  other, 
and  she  won't  ever  have  her  meals  with  Anne  again.  She 
will  come  and  have  them  all  with  her  cousin  Humphrey. 
Then  she  can  sit  by  her  cousin  Humphrey's  side,  and  pass 
him  things,  and  talk  to  him.  Her  cousin  Humphrey  will 

73 


74  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

like  that.  Eh?  Won't  he,  cousin  Humphrey?  And  it  will 
make  Anne  mad. 

And  next  day,  perhaps,  cousin  Humphrey,  in  the  interest 
of  order  and  the  sense  of  justice,  has  trodden  on  the  tail  of 
that  asp-like  affection,  and  it  has  stung  him  in  the  heel  and 
curled  off  to  the  kitchen  unashamed.  "  I'm  coming  to  have 
my  tea  with  you,  Anne."  "  Then  you  hadn't  need,"  cries 
back  the  irate  woman.  "  I  want  nobody's  leavings.  Gan 
back  to  Doctor,  and  tell  him  it  was  you  that  made  his  toast, 
and  couldn't  he  tell  it  was  a  deal  different  from  when  aud 
Anne  diz  it  ?  And  get  him  to  tell  you  '  Yes/  like  you  did  be- 
fore. I  know  your  deceiving  ways,  for  all  I'm  a  fond  old 
fool."  Despite  of  which,  the  fond  old  fool  is  melted  into 
complacency  after  five  minutes'  pleading,  and  sits  down  to  the 
teapot  with  her  wrath  not  altogether  discarded,  but  kept  care- 
fully by  her  side,  like  a  portentous  reticule,  for  usage  in 
emergency  —  should  the  girl  suddenly  decide  to  forsake  the 
kitchen  and  go  on  a  peace-begging  mission  to  the  Doctor's 
table :  "  Cousin  Humphrey  .  .  .  Cousin  Humphrey ! 
I've  come  back  again  .  .  ."  looking  at  the  grave  seated 
figure  through  those  small  heavens  of  beseeching  blue,  and 
drawing  nearer  in  humble  supplication  — "  And  I'm  very 
sorry  I  lost  my  temper  and  was  angry  with  you.  But  you 
.  .  .  but  you  don't  know  how  I  love  you."  Here  a  hint 
of  tears  and  a  quickening  of  the  voice,  as  though  hastening 
to  win  the  bridge  of  purpose  before  it  should  be  swept  away 
by  the  rising  flood.  "  Oh,  say  you  love  me !  "  With  this,  a 
tumultuous  recourse  to  arms.  "  And  forgive  me  ... 
and  I'll  fetch  my  cup  and  saucer." 

From  the  tangled  garden  where  once  the  Doctor's  mother 
had  wandered  in  so  many  conscientious  hours,  diffusing 
fragrant  harmony  with  soft  hands,  and  bending  stubborn 
herbage  to  her  gentle  will,  the  girl  culls  blossoms  from  the 
pouting  wilderness:  marguerites  and  pendent  fuschia;  roses 


75 

and  blue  borage;  snap-dragon  and  the  aerial  sweet  peas, 
hovering  in  great  scented  clusters  like  tinted  butterflies ;  so 
numerous  that  the  morning  dew  lies  glittering  on  their  wings 
till  noonday ;  pinks  and  carnations  and  scented  southern- 
wood ;  and  sets  all  these  in  pot  and  vase  about  the  house  till 
the  Doctor's  room  is  impassioned  with  breath  of  fragrant 
oratory,  and  the  dead  mother  enters  its  doors  again  with 
many  a  familiar  long-neglected  bloom.  Only,  in  place  of  the 
graver  woman,  with  the  gentle  reverence  for  beauty  that  age 
and  a  sense  of  life's  passage  can  alone  confer  —  in  place  of 
this,  his  own  mother,  to  caress  the  blossom  cheeks  with  soft 
touches  of  finger-tip  and  call  her  son's  attention  to  their 
grace  and  fragrance,  was  the  eager  finger  of  the  girl,  dabbing 
the  chubby  blooms  with  the  careless  fingers  of  affinitive  youth 
(heedless  of  fragility  and  decay)  ;  more  concerned  to  draw 
her  cousin  Humphrey's  notice  to  her  skill  than  to  the  beauty 
of  the  blossoms;  calling  upon  him  in  persistent  treble  to 
notice  this,  and  smell  that;  to  admire  and  to  praise. 

And  then,  we  may  suppose,  in  such  a  room  these  two  sit 
down  to  the  breakfast-table  together,  and  the  girl  asks  him 
why  he  is  so  quiet.  He  tells  her  he  is  thinking.  She  asks : 
What  about?  He  says,  many  things.  Does  he  ever  think 
about  her?  There  is  a  pause.  Does  he?  Another  pause, 
and  then,  perhaps,  a  protracted,  Sometimes.  Does  he  ?  Tell 
her  what  he  thinks  when  he  thinks  about  her.  He  thinks 
—  and  fastens  an  eye  of  some  indecision  upon  her,  wrapped 
in  robes  of  authority  concerning  whose  fit  and  appropriateness 
it  appears  to  have  misgivings  —  he  thinks  and  wonders 
.  .  .  whether  she  is  always  kind  and  respectful  to  Anne. 
The  role  of  moral  preceptor  —  harassed  with  memories  of 
many  recent  lapses,  to  which  the  girl  has  been  a  witness  — 
sits  uneasily  on  his  shoulders.  The  girl,  with  the  acute 
penetration  of  her  sex,  is  not  deceived  by  this  lukewarm 
improvement  of  the  shining  hour.  She  draws  her  brows 


76  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

together,  and  shakes  her  hair  with  a  pettish  half-closing 
of  resentful  lids,  and  tells  him  to  "  Bother  Anne ! "  He 
says :  "  That  is  not  the  way  ...  I  care  to  hear  you 
speak  of  One,"  and  blinks  — "  of  One  for  whom  .  .  ." 
and  blinks  again,  with  the  remembrance  of  the  girl's  previous 
challenge  — "  for  whom  my  mother  had  a  very  high  re- 
gard." He  falls  back  upon  an  assumption  of  gravity  and 
decorum  rather  than  the  difficult  verbal  expression  of  it; 
using  his  spoon,  at  such  moments,  with  great  reserve, 
and  his  knife  and  fork  with  deep  deliberation;  and  in- 
ferring much  dumb  loftiness  of  brow,  and  stern  rectitude, 
while  professing  ignorance  of  the  girl's  scrutiny.  And  after 
this,  it  may  be,  the  girl  will  touch  upon  the  outlines  of  the 
day ;  as  to  where  he  is  going ;  what  patients  he  must  see ;  what 
illnesses  consider.  Without  the  wish,  he  is  drawn  insensibly 
into  speech.  Monosyllables  become  dissyllables,  and  dissylla- 
bles link  together  in  chains  of  quiet  colloquy.  With  each  suc- 
cessive meal  the  formal  gravity,  introduced  into  his  speech 
like  a  training  rod  for  self-possession  to  grow  against,  be- 
comes less  necessary  to  his  usage.  By  degrees  he  can  speak 
to  her  and  look  upon  her  without  constraint. 

And  the  process  of  assimilation,  begun  in  the  shelter  of  the 
big  house,  is  continued  day  after  day  through  the  hedgerows 
of  the  district.  Sunfleet  and  Homerise,  Beachington  and 
Peterwick,  and  all  the  straggling  parishes,  grow  habited  to 
the  sight  of  the  Doctor  and  the  girl.  "  Doctor'  Lass  "  she 
comes  eventually  to  be  called,  for  the  uses  of  the  particle  and 
the  possessive  s  are  foreign  to  our  speech  and  idiom.  We 
"  gan  ti  garden  ",  and  "  stop  i'  house  ",  and  "  lig  on  grass  ", 
and  "  walk  to  cliff  ",  and  do  most  of  our  daily  business  with- 
out any  obligation  to  the  definite  article.  While  on  the  other 
grammatical  high  road  we  can  drive  a  team  of  four  posses- 
sives  without  harness,  so  to  speak,  and  say :  "  Dog  bit  Steb- 
bing'  brother'  sister-i'-law'  bairn  i'  leg  "  without  so  much  as  a 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  77 

blink,  reserving  the  ss  for  seasoning  our  plurals,  till  even 
proper  names  seethe  over  the  tongue  like  hissing  soup,  and 
we  speak  sibilantly  of  "  Johnsonses  "  and  "  Stebbinges,"  and 
"  Medlingses  "  in  our  effort  to  do  justice  to  these  families  in 
their  collective  capacity. 

After  all,  the  Doctor  finds  the  girl's  near  presence  less  try- 
ing in  the  open,  dissolved  in  green  fields  and  spacious  blue 
skies.  In  the  jogging  horse  and  flapping  reins  there  is  always 
a  refuge  for  his  eyes  against  her  scrutiny.  Here  she  cannot 
hold  him  captive  under  the  concentration  of  that  full-eyed 
gaze.  At  the  first  suspicion  that  she  is  about  to  entangle 
him  in  some  outspoken  question,  he  can  ward  off  the  evil 
with  an  encouraging  "  Gee,  Polly  "  to  the  plodding  mare ;  or 
draw  her  up  against  an  imaginary  stumble ;  or  study  the  slow 
unrolling  of  fallow  and  stubble  as  the  grinding  wheels  revolve. 
Thus  in  this  companionship  they  cover  many  a  mile ;  share 
the  shelter  of  the  slashed  hood  in  showers,  and  give  their 
legs,  in  colder  weather,  the  comfort  of  one  common  rug. 
Now  the  girl  sits  solitary  in  the  dusty  vehicle  while  the  Doctor 
is  absorbed  into  some  white-washed  cottage  or  red-brick  farm. 
Now  she  is  called  from  her  lonely  place  by  some  resolutely 
hospitable  farmer's  wife  who  declines  to  take  the  Doctor's 
assurance  that  the  girl  could  not  drink  a  glass  of  warm  milk 
or  eat  a  slice  of  curd  if  invited,  but  comes  out  in  person  to 
see,  crying,  "  Not  hungry  ?  Why  noo,  I  know  very  well 
bairns  is  allus  hungry."  And  the  girl  —  who  has  no  shyness 
for  strangers  not  dictated  by  a  sense  of  politeness  (when  her 
tongue  grows  very  soft,  and  her  blue  eyes  very  tender)  — 
drops  down  from  the  trap  in  a  jiffy  as  soon  as  the  kindness 
is  proffered  (saying  "  Thank  you  "  on  the  way)  and  admitting 
freely  that  she  could  do  with  the  milk  and  some  curd,  and 
would  love  to  look  inside  a  real  farm  kitchen. 

In  such  circumstances,  when  the  girl  is  dipping  her  lips  to 
the  creamy  fluid,  and  suffering  her  blue  eyes  to  wander  in 


78  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

contented  scrutiny  about  the  kitchen  as  she  drinks,  the  Doctor 
is  never  so  silent ;  she  is  always  a  menace  to  his  peace  of 
mind.  He  is  frightened  of  what  her  lips  may  let  fall ;  shirk- 
ing the  public  proclamation  of  this  spurious  kinship,  and 
fearing  some  childish  indiscretion  of  lip  that  may  illu- 
minate this  chapter  of  the  past.  When  the  farmer's  wife 
tells  him  from  the  bounty  of  her  heart,  "  Why,  you'll  be- 
gin to  feel  quite  set  up,  Doctor,  noo  you've  gotten  a  young 
lady  to  keep  house  for  you,"  he  winces  as  if  she  had 
rapped  his  knuckles  with  the  rolling  pin.  And  when  she 
proceeds  to  open  the  dread  skeleton  cupboard  of  relationships 
and  asks,  "  Let's  see.  What  is  she  akin  to  ye  ?  Niece,  div 
ye  say  ? "  anger  rises  under  his  tongue  to  think  the  fools 
cannot  keep  a  seemly  bridle  on  their  curiosity.  "  A  sort  of 
half-cousin,"  he  answers  discouragingly.  Adding,  "  By 
marriage  only."  'And  turns  thereat  to  the  girl,  of  whose 
Christian  name  he  makes  small  use.  "  Well  .  .  .  we 
must  be  pushing  on.  I  have  many  calls  to-day.  You'll 
send  for  that  medicine,  Mrs.  Hammerton  ?  " 

In  the  trap,  on  one  occasion,  after  fuming  over  such  an 
incident  in  silence,  he  said  all  at  once,  with  a  careless  flick  at 
the  mare. 

"  By  the  way.  The  people  here  are  very  inquisitive. 
Don't  encourage  them  to  talk." 

The  girl  said,  "What  about?" 

"  About  things  that  don't  concern  them,"  he  answered. 
"  About  yourself,  for  instance." 

"  Don't  you  want  them  to  know  who  I  am  ?  " 

He  shirked  the  issue. 

"  I  do  not  mean  that.  Still  .  .  .  they  ask  many 
questions  that  there  is  no  need  to  gratify.  What  we  are  to 
one  another  has  really  nothing  to  do  with  them." 

She  drank  his  face,  drained  his  countenance  of  its  tokens 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  79 

from  brow  to  chin,  as  she  had  drained  the  tumblers  of  milk. 

"  Do  you  wish  I  wasn't  your  cousin  ? "  she  asked,  after  a 
moment. 

"  Such  an  idea  never  entered  my  head.  But  if  you  were 
my  own  sister  ...  or  not  even  related  to  me  in  any  way, 
the  point  would  be  the  same.  They  would  still  try  and 
make  some  sort  of  gossip  out  of  it." 

"  And  you  are  angry  with  me  for  drinking  the  milk  ?  "  the 
girl  asked  him.  "  And  for  going  into  the  kitchen?  You  are, 
aren't  you  ?  " 

"  That  is  ridiculous,"  the  Doctor  retorted,  wincing  under 
the  truth  of  the  accusation.  But  the  sort  of  dogged  con- 
scientiousness inherited  from  his  mother  caused  him  to  add, 
"  All  the  same  ...  it  would  be  wiser  not  to  make  a 
practice  of  it.  I  would  much  rather  buy  you  the  milk  —  if 
you  are  thirsty.  It  is  well  not  to  encourage  them  to  ask  ques- 
tions. They  are  very  curious  to  know  many  things  about 
you  that  they  ought  not  to  be  told.  One  cannot  be  too  par- 
ticular as  to  what  one  says  ...  in  a  small  place  like 
this." 

The  girl's  eyes  had  been  darkening  during  the  latter  part 
of  his  speech,  and  a  quiver  had  stirred  the  corners  of  her 
mouth.  "  I  know  what  you  mean,"  she  said,  in  a  small  com- 
pressed voice.  "  Only  you  are  frightened  to  say  it.  You 
don't  want  them  to  know  who  I  am,  or  that  I'm  your  cousin. 
You're  ashamed  of  me  because  my  mother  died  so  poor  and 
I  had  not  the  money  to  pay  my  own  railway  fare  to  Sunfleet. 
You're  afraid  all  the  time  that  I  shall  tell  people  how 
dreadfully  poor  we  were,  and  that  my  mother  had  to  write 
and  beg  you  to  take  care  of  me,  though  often  she  could  not 
write  for  crying."  Tears  wrestled  with  anger  in  her  eyes. 
"  You're  ashamed  of  me  .  .  .  and  hate  me,  and  wish  I 
had  never  come.  Why  did  you  send  for  me  at  all?  You 


8o  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

won't  let  me  love  you,  and  you  won't  love  me.  You  never 
smile  at  me,  or  look  kind,  and  you're  always  turning  away 
your  head  as  though  you  didn't  want  to  see  me.  I  wish  I 
was  dead  .  .  .  and  with  my  mother." 

And  the  next  morning  there  was  no  impetuous  girl  to  set 
the  fragrance  of  his  room  in  motion,  or  to  stir  the  blossom 
scents  with  impulsive  caress.  He  had  surmised  as  much  and 
apprehended  it  overnight,  and  one  look  at  the  lonely  table, 
with  its  lonely  chair,  and  its  lonely  cup  and  saucer,  and  its 
lonely  setting,  confirmed  the  apprehension.  In  penitence  he 
swallowed  a  tasteless  meal. 

Nor  did  the  crunching  of  the  buggy  wheels,  nor  the 
labored  grunting  of  the  groom  bring  back  the  injured  spirit 
of  the  girl.  A  silence  —  that  dead  and  stagnant  silence  as  of 
the  days  before  her  coming  —  lay  like  some  slothful  monster 
in  the  hall.  He  told  himself  her  absence  was  as  well.  It 
broke  the  irksome  precedent  of  recent  times,  and  left  him 
free  to  turn  her  own  child's  pride  upon  her  foolish  shoulders. 
He  would  not  patch  this  quarrel.  Through  the  rent  in  their 
relations  he  would  find  escape  to  reach  those  contemplated 
things  from  which  her  daily  contact  had  restrained  him. 
Henceforth  he  would  mark  their  two  respective  stations. 
Now  she  should  go  to  school. 

And  for  all  that  he  hung  about  his  room  while  the  old 
mare  shook  her  jangling  bit  outside  and  pawed  the  gravel, 
and  awoke  the  aged  groom  to  audible  invective  —  with  a  sour 
eye  on  the  signless  porch. 

"  What  i'  heaven's  name  is  keeping  man  when  he  knows 
weel  enough  I'se  stood  ootside?  Diz  he  think  I'se  nought  i' 
world  to  do  but  wait  of  him  ?  " 

But  there  is  no  girl. 

He  goes,  the  Doctor,  into  the  hall  and  makes  much  noisy 
profession  of  departure.  Passes  into  the  deserted  surgery 
and  clinks  with  bottles.  Proceeds  up-stairs  and  down  again. 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  81 

The  mare  has  scraped  more  furrows  in  the  gravel  by  the 
time  of  his  return  than  the  old  groom  would  dig  in  an  hour's 
work. 

And  still  no  girl. 

And  he  goes,  with  a  feeling  of  solitude  and  sickness  at 
heart,  for  he  begins  to  realize  that  the  girl  occupies  a  bigger 
share  of  his  existence  than  he  had  ever  been  prepared  to 
grant.  There  is  a  great  void  in  the  buggy,  a  dreariness  along 
the  roads.  He  misses  the  pressure  of  her  disconcerting  eyes, 
and  apprehends  Pridgeon  at  familiar  corners  as  if  he  were 
a  specter  and  the  daylight  night,  for  he  feels  that,  in  his 
present  purposeless  mood,  he  is  an  easy  prey  to  those  devour- 
ing cacodemons  of  the  past.  And  the  dull  aimlessness  of  the 
drive  is  intensified  with  a  dozen  thoughtless  queries  — 

"What!     You're  alone  to-day,  then?" 

"  What's  gotten  your  young  lady,  Doctor  ?  Is  she  stopping 
wi' ye  still?" 

He  is  angry  with  the  girl,  and  angry  with  himself.  He 
feels  he  has  surrendered  too  much  of  himself  in  his  desire  to 
be  just,  has  given  her  the  warm  kindness  of  his  heart  instead 
of  the  colder  fragments  of  charity.  The  housekeeper  had 
warned  him  truly  when  she  told  him  that  this  was  Hilda 
Brennan's  bairn.  No  steadfast  breeze  could  blow  from  such 
a  quarter.  Her  heart  is  a  shallow  mockery,  like  her  mother's 
—  a  mere  saucer  for  tears  and  cajoleries,  without  depth  for 
gratitude  or  loyalty  or  love.  Well,  he  has  this  to  be  thankful 
for,  that  he  has  awakened  to  the  danger  of  her  disposition 
in  time.  Now  he  can  deal  with  her. 

And  that  he  may  begin  to  deal  with  her  at  once,  and  lay 
the  first  stones  of  his  new  purpose,  he  chops  his  circuit 
moodily  in  half,  and  drives  home  in  the  early  afternoon. 
"  She  shall  go  to  school,"  he  tells  himself  as  he  flicks  the 
mare.  "  I  won't  be  played  the  fool  with  in  my  own  house. 
There  can  be  no  rest  or  happiness  for  me  while  she  stays." 

6 


82  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

And  lo!  Along  the  last  mile  of  highway  home  from 
Beachington  there  is  the  object  of  all  his  haste  and  bitter 
meditation  drawn  up  in  the  grassy  border  of  the  road,  her 
fingers  purple  with  the  juice  of  many  a  gathered  berry,  her 
lips  stained  red,  and  her  blue  eyes  beaming  recognition  and 
welcome.  He  hears  the  radiant  "  Cousin  Humphrey  "  thrown 
out  through  the  amicable  flash  of  white  teeth,  as  though  no 
quarrel  stood  between  them,  and  pulls  sullenly  upon  the 
reins  so  that  the  mare  interprets  his  displeasure  through  a 
long  protracted  stoppage.  The  girl,  out  of  breath  with  her 
enforced  pursuit  and  the  occasional  calls  upon  his  name, 
comes  up  to  the  buggy  at  length.  He  does  not  turn  to  show 
welcome  or  attendance,  but  awaits  her  with  a  rigid  back, 
switching  the  whip  as  though  impatient,  and  directing  a 
smileless  face  as  her  own  beams  up  at  him. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here  ?  "  he  asks  gravely. 

She  tells  him  she  has  come  to  meet  him.  She  knew  he 
would  be  driving  back  that  way. 

"  As  a  rule,  yes.  But  if  I  had  driven  round  by  Homerise 
as  I  intended,  you  must  have  missed  me  altogether.  It 
would  have  been  wiser  to  stay  with  Anne." 

"  Why  didn't  you  drive  round  by  Homerise  ?  " 

"  Because     .     .     .     because  to-day  there  was  no  occasion." 

She  hears  the  quarrel  in  his  voice  and  sees  it  in  his  brow, 
a  dagger  buried  to  the  hilt  where  her  temper  plunged  it, 
and  without  a  pause  for  consideration,  clasps  his  arm  and 
pulls  it  to  her  bosom. 

"  Cousin  Humphrey,  you're  not  angry  with  me  still,  are 
you?  I'm  not  angry  with  you  any  longer.  You  don't 
know  "  (gulp)  "  how  I've  missed  you  all  this  while.  It  has 
been  wretched  without  you." 

He  bends  with  silent  dignity  to  the  petition,  makes  no 
pardoning  sign,  but  lets  her  clasp  his  arm  the  tighter  and 
heap  her  phrases  of  contrition  on  his  silence.  She  deems 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  83 

his  anger  buried,  after  awhile,  beneath  her  protestations  of 
repentance.  The  crease  of  anxious  concentration  relaxes 
between  her  brows,  her  gaze  grows  in  assurance,  she  looks 
into  his  eyes  with  the  radiant  confidence  for  rehabilitation 
and  favor. 

"  You're  not  angry  with  me  now,  Cousin  Humphrey,"  she 
beseeches  him,  "  when  you  see  how  sorry  I've  been.  Oh, 
make  haste  and  say  you  forgive  me  before  Anne  sees  us. 
Anne  said  you  never  would.  Not  likely.  But  I  told  her  I 
knew  very  well  you  would  if  only  I  asked  you." 

Yes,  yes.     If  only  she  asked  him. 

If  only  she  played  the  Hilda  Brennan  game  with  Hilda 
Brennan's  skill.  If  only  she  begged  and  held  those  mendicant 
blue  eyes  before  his  anger,  and  offered  him  her  heart  for  his 
wrath  to  walk  on.  If  only  she  did  these  things  he  would 
forgive  her  as  she  asked,  now  and  always,  and  be  the  God's 
own  fool  that  he  had  ever  been. 


XI 

OCTOBER  is  a  great  month  in  Sunfleet,  for  it  brings 
the  Hunmouth  Fair,  and  Hunmouth  Fair  has  a  trans- 
cendent place  in  our  calendar.  We  synchronize  a  host  of 
agrestic  obligations  with  this  mighty  festival,  and  all  points 
of  time  between  harvest  and  the  November  Mass  are  cal- 
culated by  their  relation  to  it.  It  gives  us  warning  to  be  on 
with  our  winter  wheat,  and  to  bestow  an  extra  and  tender 
care  on  the  Martinmas  pig. 

To  dwellers  in  towns  who  are  grown  blase  to  the  thrill  of 
tram-rides,  and  who  through  intimate  acquaintance  with 
every  variety  of  theatrical  poster  may  be  said  to  have 
exhausted  the  emotions  of  the  drama,  there  may  be  little 
in  the  sound  of  Hunmouth  Fair  to  stir  the  pulses ;  but  it 
is  different  with  the  scattered  Northumbrian  parishes  that 
lie  lonely  under  God's  sky  between  Hunmouth  and  the  sea. 
There,  many  a  man  leaning  on  the  ash  stick  that  is  crooked 
beneath  the  weight  of  rheumatism  and  the  reminiscences  of 
years,  has  hoped,  against  the  plain  discouragement  of  his 
limbs,  that  he  might  see  one  more  Hunmouth  Fair  before 
he  died.  There  is  a  magic  in  the  very  words,  like  the 
"  Open  Sesame,"  to  unlock  the  heart  of  youth  in  hope,  and 
throw  back  even  the  creaking  portals  of  old  age  in  a  smile 
of  distant  memory.  Ancient  mortals,  carved  in  stone,  are 
set  out  by  kitchen  fires  like  arm-chairs,  and  moved  up  and 
down  stairs  at  other  people's  convenience,  like  furniture : 
"  Set  father  oot  i'  porch  while  we  get  floor  scrubbed."  "  Run 
Lizzie,  an'  fetch  your  grandfather  in  quick.  It's  coming  on 
rain."  "  Tek  father  i'  parlor  a  bit.  I  can't  get  ti  oven  door 

84 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  85 

.  .  ."  Ancient  mortals  such  as  these,  who  seem  to  have 
lost  all  interest  in  themselves  or  their  belongings,  and  have 
to  be  told  that  they  are  hungry  before  they  can  believe  it, 
or  have  the  cup  forced  to  their  rebellious  lips  before  they 
will  drink  —  resuscitate  a  fragment  of  antiquated  pride  from 
some  dusky  cupboard  of  memory  (much  as  old  women  will 
treasure  the  solitary  saucer  which  bears  tribute  to  the  one- 
time Worcester  tea-service,  of  common  use  in  their  grand- 
mother's days),  and  at  mention  of  Hunmouth  Fair  be  heard 
to  say :  "  Aye,  I've  had  my  share  o'  Hunmouth  Fair  i'  my 
time,  you  may  depend.  I've  seed  fotty,  and  nobbut  missed 
yan  —  year  my  mother  died.  There's  not  a  deal  o'  folk  can 
say  as  much."  Farm  lads  and  lasses  begin  to  count  their 
money  in  the  secreted  purses  at  the  bottom  of  the  corded 
box  or  cadaverous-lidded  trunk,  with  a  new  look  of  uneasy 
wonder  in  their  eyes,  and  make  weird  calculations  over  the 
fingers  of  both  hands  in  an  effort  to  decide  how  many  more 
days  there  are  before  the  Fair,  and  how  much  money  is  still 
necessary  to  their  desires.  Children  grow  importunate  and 
clutch  their  mothers'  skirts  and  cry :  "  Can  I  gan  ti' 
Oommuth  Fair  an'  all,  mother  ?  I'se  as  big  as  Janey  Dowes, 
and  gotten  threepence-'apenny  in  my  box.  Ye  promised 
last  year  ye'd  take  me  nobbut  I  held  my  noise.  An'  I  did." 

It  is  the  biggest  Fair  in  England,  the  elysium  for  all 
who  love  noise  and  dust  and  movement,  and  the  special 
trains  panting  between  Hunmouth  and  all  the  district  round 
pump  the  soil  dry  of  its  workers  during  the  magic  week. 
Sunfleet,  at  such  a  time,  is  a  place  of  the  dead. 

For  the  Fair,  throbbing  in  the  hot  bosom  of  Hunmouth 
like  a  fevered  heart,  draws  all  the  district  irresistibly  through 
its  valves  as  if  humanity  were  blood.  Men  go  to  Hunmouth 
with  jests  on  their  lips  who  have  not  smiled  since  last  Fair; 
and  careful  housewives,  who  would  not  waste  a  currant  in 
one  of  their  own  teacakes,  will  tuck  up  their  skirts  and  sit 


86  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

bolt  upright  with  their  petticoats  about  them,  in  a  carriage 
of  eighteen  passengers,  just  to  see  the  Fair  they  have  never 
missed  since  they  were  girls  in  service  —  and  bring  back  the 
same  invariable  Hunmouth  headache  and  the  same  brandy- 
snap  and  short  temper,  as  a  memento  of  the  ordeal.  Before 
the  end  of  the  Fair's  first  day,  the  corpuscles  of  district  blood 
are  visibly  enriched  with  its  influence.  Mouth-organs  and 
new  accordions,  the  latter  smelling  of  glue  and  varnish, 
and  the  former  tasting  horrible  when  blown,  commence  to 
crop  up  everywhere  —  a  veritable  harvest  of  discordancies. 
Small  girls  wear  bead  necklaces,  and  their  elder  sisters 
cheap  jewelry  and  brooches  at  their  bosom  with  their 
Christian  names  stamped  in  silver,  and  rings  inscribed  with 
Mizpah.  Children  make  themselves  sick  with  mint- rock  and 
unripe  apples  or  watery  pears,  and  babies  choke  over  brandy- 
snap  of  a  peculiarly  inflexible  and  destructive  character, 
which  has  to  be  forked  out  in  haste  by  the  maternal  finger 
from  a  bubbling  mouth ;  and  farm  men  smoke  Aunt  Sallie 
cigars  that  smell  like  the  Great  Plague  and  the  Fire  of 
London  combined  —  all  evidences  of  the  festival  that  consum- 
mates itself  daily  in  sweat  and  dust,  and  sets  fierce  fire  to 
the  Hunmouth  sky  by  night.  Even  at  Kenham  Beach  there 
are  Hunmouth  drums  beaten  by  indefatigable  fingers,  and 
Hunmouth  trumpets  blown  by  the  lips  of  infancy  below  the 
lonely  light  at  Spraith. 

Of  Pridgeon  little  has  been  seen  in  these  latter  days  since 
a  memorable  occasion  when  he  dropped  from  the  Doctor's 
gig  at  Homerise,  though  he  has  not  been  by  any  means  in- 
active, and  the  Recording  Angel  has  had  to  inscribe  many 
items  under  his  name.  Once  or  twice,  indeed,  he  has  called 
at  the  tree-girt  house  in  the  Doctor's  absence,  and  left  a  mes- 
sage that  he  would  look  round  again  later  in  the  evening. 
Whereupon  the  Doctor  has  slipped  the  latch  in  the  front 
door  to  put  this  lawless  smiler  on  the  ceremony  of  ringing 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  87 

his  arrival,  and  awaited  the  proclamation  with  lips  of  set 
purpose.  But  no  visit  has  ensued,  and  Pridgeon  has  been 
reported  elsewhere ;  perhaps  at  the  Rising  Sun  with 
Farmer  Medling  and  a  retinue  of  subsidiaries,  or  further 
afield  in  the  pursuit  of  some  other  nocturnal  pleasure. 
Hand-waves,  too,  have  been  exchanged  between  the  two 
men  at  a  distance ;  brief  on  the  Doctor's  part  in  mere  token 
of  acknowledgment,  and  dropped  thereat,  like  the  signal 
arm  at  Peterwick  when  the  Hunmouth  train  is  due;  more 
prolonged  on  the  farmer's  side :  a  salutation  and  summons 
in  one,  suggesting  stoppage  of  the  gig  and  much  to  talk 
about.  On  this  point,  however,  the  Doctor  has  been  in- 
exorable; has  re-addressed  himself  to  his  driving  as  to  a 
serious  pursuit,  and  waved  the  whiplash  with  the  studious 
care  for  errands  of  gravity.  He  has  not  shunned  Pridgeon 
in  any  spirit  of  moodiness  or  fear,  but  he  has  wished  to  avoid 
all  renewal  of  their  intimacy  until  he  could  meet  him  breast 
to  breast  in  a  talk  uncumbered  by  the  girl. 

The  Hunmouth  Fair,  counting  Pridgeon  among  its  most- 
ardent  supporters,  does  the  Doctor's  mission  in  this  respect. 
On  the  eve  of  the  great  Saturday,  with  as  much  liquor  in 
his  constitution  as  shows  his  smile  to  best  advantage,  and 
lends  a  characteristic  geniality  to  all  his  bearing  (the  night 
being  yet  young),  Pridgeon  presents  himself  at  the  Doctor's 
door  in  quest  of  company  for  the  morrow. 

The  latch  —  for  many  years  grown  rusty  in  disservice  —  is 
now  a  perpetual  feature  of  the  door's  armament,  well  oiled 
and  in  good  working  order.  Consequently,  after  swearing 
for  some  time  at  an  unresponsive  knob,  the  farmer  gives  up 
further  attention  on  it,  like  friendship  wasted  on  teetotalers, 
and  rings  a  great  peal  of  profanity  on  the  bell.  The  girl, 
playing  beggar-my-neighbor  with  the  Doctor  in  the  big 
room,  where  the  two  of  them  are  drawn  under  the  lamp, 
tangled  in  fragrant  smoke  like  floating  skeins  of  worsted, 


88  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

stops  in  her  appropriation  of  the  Doctor's  knave  to  say,  "  My 
goodness !  Whoever  is  that  ?  "  There  is  no  note  of  interro- 
gation in  the  Doctor's  mind,  for  he  knows  that  never  call  of 
urgency  presented  itself  in  such  a  guise.  This  was  a 
whisky  summons,  that  only  inebriation  could  produce  or 
hear  with  equanimity.  The  Doctor  laid  his  hand  upon  the 
girl's  wrist  and  said,  "  Hush !  Pick  up  the  cards  and  go  and 
sit  with  Anne  for  a  while.  That's  a  good  girl."  The  good 
girl  is  inclined  to  ask  questions,  perhaps,  but  she  gathers  the 
greasy  cards  in  her  hand,  and  with  the  sole  stipulation  that 
she  is  not  merely  being  got  rid  of,  and  that  the  Doctor  will 
finish  the  game  with  her  before  she  goes  to  bed,  takes  her 
departure  for  the  kitchen.  The  housekeeper,  coming  through 
the  hall  to  the  door,  had  not  misread  the  summons  any 
more  than  the  Doctor.  She  puts  her  head  into  his  room 
to  say: 

"  You  know  who  yon  is." 

"  No  mistaking  it,  Anne." 

"  Well  ?  Where  had  you  better  be  ?  Peterwick  or  up  at 
Spraith?" 

"  Here,  to-night,"  says  the  Doctor.  "  Let  him  in,  Anne. 
I  want  to  speak  to  him." 

She  is  disposed  to  contest  the  decision. 

"  What  good  will  speaking  tiv  him  do  ?  "  she  asks.  "  I've 
spoken  tiv  him  my  sen,  as  plain  as  onnybody  can  speak.  But 
it  diz  no  good.  He's  past  shame." 

The  Doctor  smiled  indulgently.  "  All  right,  Anne.  Show 
him  in;  I'll  tackle  him." 

"  You  know  what  you've  promised,"  the  housekeeper 
reminds  him.  "  Not  a  glass  nor  drop."  Again  the  bell 
rings,  and  she  disappears  into  the  hall.  The  opening  of  the 
doors  lets  in  the  farmer's  voice  with  the  sullen  gustiness  of 
a  March  wind,  long  pent  up  in  crevice  and  keyhole,  and 
exuberantly  happy.  The  voice  curls  round  the  housekeeper, 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  89 

"  Hello,  Anne,  you  old  darling !  God  bless  us,  you  seem  to 
grow  better  for  keeping,  like  a  russet  apple."  There  is  a 
brief  sound  of  scraping  in  the  hall,  as  if  the  housekeeper  were 
commencing  to  scour  the  flags,  succeeded  by  a  sudden  clap 
like  the  falling  of  a  Bible,  and  a  moment  later  Pridgeon 
laughs  his  way  into  the  room. 


XII 


HE  comes  in  with  his  usual  impetuous  salutation,  but  his 
eye  —  quick  to  observance  —  takes  up  the  tokens  of 
alteration  in  the  familiar  room.  He  notes  the  emblems  of  re- 
generation in  the  Doctor's  person,  the  look  of  new  life's  in- 
terest on  his  countenance  that  marks  it  as  clearly  from  the 
face  the  farmer  had  previously  known  as  wakefulness  from 
sleep. 

"  Hello !  What  the  deuce !  "  he  says.  "  You  look  strange 
and  smart.  You've  got  a  new  tie  on,  and  had  your  hair  cut. 
Old  Stebbing  told  me  you  were  driving  out  to-day  with  a 
new  hat  on  and  all,  but  I  said  he  was  a  liar.  What's  come 
over  you  ?  You  never  stop  when  I  wave  to  you  now-a-days. 
You  don't  think  I've  got  the  hump  over  yon  business  at 
Homerise,  do  you?  God  bless  us,  I'm  not  one  of  that  sort. 
I  believe  in  forgiving  and  forgetting."  He  drew  out  his 
pipe,  and  commenced  to  replete  its  charred  briar  bowl  with 
thick  shag  out  of  the  worn  moleskin  pouch.  "  I've  been 
wanting  to  see  you  this  week  past,  but  I've  been  so  throng. 
Now,  what  about  to-morrow  ?  " 

"What  about  it?" 

"What  about  it?"  exclaimed  Pridgeon.  "Lord,  bless 
us.  You  haven't  forgotten  what  day  it  is  ?  " 

"What  day  is  it?" 

"  Do  you  try  and  make  me  believe  you've  forgotten  Hun- 
mouth  Fair?"  cried  Pridgeon.  "Lord!  Anne  would  know 
better.  All  the  lasses  are  trimming  up  their  hats,  and  you 
couldn't  beat  the  weather.  Now,  come  on.  You  and  I'll  go 
and  have  a  nice  quiet  day  in  the  thick  of  it,  all  to  ourselves. 

90 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  91 

There'll  be  thousands  there."  He  saw  the  smile  and  nega- 
tion on  the  Doctor's  face,  and  pressed  his  request  upon  him 
with  a  keener  emphasis.  "  Lord  beggar  it.  Don't  say  '  No.' 
I've  been  counting  on  you.  Old  Medling  wants  me  to  drive 
in  with  him  in  the  morning,  but  he's  such  a  drunken  old 
buck,  and  so  damned  heavy  to  lift.  You  can't  go  all  round 
the  Fair  with  that  hanging  on  your  arm.  Besides  .  .  . 
who's  to  drive  coming  home?  And  then  there's  the  old 
girl  to  face  at  the  end  of  it  all,  after  you've  done  your 
best  to  keep  him  straight  up  on  his  legs.  She  comes  down 
with  a  candle  to  tell  you  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself 
bringing  him  home  in  that  state.  You're  a  perfect  curse  to 
the  district.  Never  a  word  of  gratitude  to  you.  But  you 
know  what  women  are.  Anne's  bad  enough,  God  bless 
her." 

The  Doctor  shook  his  head. 

"  No,  no,"  he  said.  "  No  more  Hunmouth  Fair  for  me, 
Pridgeon.  I've  had  my  helping  of  that." 

"  Aye,"  acquiesced  Pridgeon.  "  But  we  overdid  it  a  bit 
that  time,  I  know.  For  one  thing,  you  weren't  used  to  it  — 
and  that  was  in  my  wild-oat  days.  Come  on  with  you,  man, 
I'll  look  after  you  all  right.  Damn  it,  if  you  don't  come,  I 
shall  have  to  go  with  old  Medling,  and  chance  it.  But  you 
and  I  take  about  the  same  draught.  We  just  want  a  little 
cream  on,  of  course  —  but  not  any  more  than  we  had  at 
Kenham  Beach  last  time,  with  yon  lass  o'  yours.  Lord, 
that  was  a  grand  drive ! " 

He  had  kept  casting  occasional  glances  of  inquiry  about 
him  in  speech  as  though  conscious  of  a  dim  lack  in  the 
constitution  of  familiar  things.  At  last  he  alighted  with 
emphasis  on  a  perception  of  the  void  that  so  troubled  him. 
"  The  devil  take  her  by  the  leg.  What's  Anne  done  with 
the  whisky?  I  thought  there  was  something  amiss." 

"  The  whisky's  gone,"  said  the  Doctor. 


92  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

"Gone?     Who's  drunk  it?     You?" 

"  I  ?  "  The  Doctor  smiled.  "  I  drank  my  last  drop  at 
Kenham  Beach.  Since  then  I've  lived  capitally  on  water." 

"What?"  cried  Pridgeon  after  a  pause,  with  his  smile 
twisted  up  in  consternation  and  amusement.  "  You  don't 
mean  .  .  ." 

"  Just  what  I  do  mean,"  the  Doctor  told  him. 

"  For  a  while,  or  for  —  for     .     .     ." 

"  For  good." 

Pridgeon  wiped  his  brow  with  the  back  of  his  hand,  as 
though  the  sudden  intelligence  had  thrown  him  into  a  sweat 
and  gazed  at  the  Doctor  through  a  distorting  smile  that  gave 
his  face  the  semblance  of  staring  through  a  warped  window- 
pane. 

"  Well  .  .  .  What !  Nay,  damn  it  all,"  he  declared, 
after  various  ineffective  openings  for  blank  astonishment. 
"  What  fools  there  are  in  the  world.  Good  whisky  never 
hurt  any  man  if  he  took  it  sensibly.  If  nobody  ever  took 
more  than  you  or  me  there'd  be  less  talk  about  temperance 
and  all  syke  nonsense.  Why,  I've  never  known  you  in  all 
my  days  when  you  couldn't  stand  on  your  feet  and  keep  go- 
ing, once  you'd  got  a  shove."  He  paused  and  scrutinized  the 
Doctor's  face.  "  Are  you  joking?  " 

"  Never  more  serious  in  my  life,"  the  Doctor  answered. 
"  I've  been  rather  wanting  to  see  you,  and  have  a  little 
squaring  up,  Pridgeon,  for  some  time." 

"  Well,  this  is  a  rum  way  of  seeing  anybody,"  commented 
Pridgeon,  with  an  incredulous  look  at  the  side-board.  "  Hang 
it,  man,  just  tell  yon  old  girl  to  bring  a  sup  of  whisky  in  and 
one  glass.  There's  no  need  for  you  to  drink  unless  you  like. 
You  please  yourself,  of  course,  but  don't  try  and  make 
teetotalers  of  your  friends.  Shall  I  give  yon  bell  a  pull  ? " 

"  No,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  don't  do  that.  What  I  have  to 
say  needn't  keep  you  long." 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  93 

"Long?"  cried  Pridgeon.  "Why,  half-a-minute's  long 
enough  for  my  job.  By  the  seraphim,"  he  said,  seeing  the 
negative  implanted  like  a  flagpole  in  the  Doctor's  look, 
"  bring  out  a  sup  of  ale  at  least.  Ale's  teetotal  enough. 
Never  mind  the  jug  —  just  a  glassful  to  put  a  bit  of  heart 
into  me.  No  ?  Not  a  sup  of  ale  even  ?  "  He  subsided  into 
his  smile  again  helplessly,  like  a  bather  who  slips  back  into 
the  bath  after  a  futile  quest  after  the  soap.  "  Well,  I'm 
executed.  I  always  thought  you  a  rum  sort  of  chap  when 
you  were  sober,  but  this  caps  all.  Why,  man,  all  Sunfleet 
knows  you  were  never  like  yourself  until  you  had  a  glass  or 
two.  It's  been  the  making  of  you.  And  now  you  talk  of 
deserting  it.  It'll  be  your  ruin,  once  you  start  taking  that 
face  round  with  you  for  good ;  and  those  patients  that  don't 
die  will  change  their  doctor.  Well !  I've  stuck  by  you 
through  thick  and  thin.  Everybody  knows  it.  What!  Do 
you  think  folks  want  a  chap  ganning  i'  door  like  an  under- 
taker, scaring  'em  wi'  looking  at  tongues  and  feeling  pulses 
as  if  they'd  aught  amiss  with  them.  Not  they.  They  want 
a  chap  to  gan  wi'  a  light  foot  and  cheerful  heart  same  as  I 
should  do,  and  talk  a  pack  of  nonsense  to  liven  them  up. 
Sing  'em  a  song  and  syke  like,  and  beg  a  glass  of  ale  before 
you  gan.  Lord  bless  me  —  and  to-morrow's  Hunmouth  Fair 
and  all!  If  there's  ever  a  time  for  a  little  friendliness 
anywhere,  it's  now." 

The  Doctor  listened  to  Pridgeon's  animated  harangue  with 
a  face  on  which  purpose  was  faintly  illuminated  with  a 
flickering  smile.  It  showed  the  tranquil  stubbornness  of 
the  man  to  Pridgeon,  and  he  saw  the  futility  of  argument 
even  though  the  smile  (so  rare  at  other  moments)  encouraged 
him  to  heap  up  words. 

"  Is  it  the  lass  ? "  he  asked  abruptly,  at  the  end  of  his 
resources,  but  awaiting  the  reply  with  a  sort  of  incredulous 


94  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

humor  as  though  scarce  venturing  to  think  the  Doctor 
would  subscribe  in  full  to  such  a  question. 

"  It's  the  lass,"  said  the  Doctor  quietly. 

"Aye,  they  play  the  devil  with  a  man,"  said  Pridgeon. 
"  But  I  never  thought  you  were  one  of  that  sort.  Anne 
could  make  naught  o'  you.  Folks  i'  Sunfleet  say  you  never 
squeezed  a  lass  i'  all  your  life."  His  lips,  warming  to  a 
congenial  topic,  expanded  to  a  smile  of  invitation.  "  Did 
you?" 

"  It  might  be  better  if  they  could  say  as  much  about  you, 
Pridgeon,"  the  Doctor  responded.  "  But  that's  not  a  matter 
I  care  to  discuss.  There  are  plenty  of  other  things  for  me 
to  be  ashamed  of,  I  know."  The  confession  seemed  to  per- 
plex the  farmer's  smile. 

"  Why,  what  are  they  ? "  he  asked  blankly,  and  then, 
catching  dimly  at  illumination,  added,  "  You  don't  call  a 
sup  of  whisky  anything  for  a  chap  to  be  ashamed  of? 
You've  recommended  it,  yourself,  for  people  —  lots  of 
times." 

"  Possibly  so,"  said  the  Doctor.  "  Whisky  is  all  right  in 
its  place,  but  its  place  is  no  longer  here.  Things  have 
altered  with  me,  Pridgeon,  and  you  ought  to  see  it." 

"  Aye,  I  do,"  said  Pridgeon,  with  an  approach  to  darkness. 
"  I  see  it  fair  enough,  and  a  dowly  sight  it  is.  They've 
altered  for  the  worse.  It's  a  rum  'un  when  Doctor  of  a  place 
can't  keep  a  sup  of  something  handy  on  his  sideboard.  That 
was  never  old  Dendy's  way." 

"  Dendy's  way,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  is  not  my  way.  My 
mind's  made  up.  Nothing  more  of  the  kind  for  me.  You 
know  I  never  liked  it." 

"  Oh,  come !  "  cried  Pridgeon,  with  an  expostulation  which 
first  shrank  and  then  expanded  his  smile.  "  You  don't  ask 
me  to  believe  that.  If  you  didn't  drink  for  pleasure  you've 
got  a  damned  sight  by  accident.  Aye!  It's  same  as  folks 


95 

that  don't  farm  for  profit,  I  think.  Syke  people  generally 
drive  the  best  bargain  and  get  best  prices  for  their  stuff,  all 
the  same." 

"  I  drank,"  said  the  Doctor  firmly,  "  for  other  reasons. 
Believe  it  or  not." 

"  Why,  as  for  that,"  said  Pridgeon,  "  there's  not  a  reason 
under  the  sun  that  a  chap  won't  drink  for.  Some  chaps 
drink  because  their  wives  die,  and  some  because  they  don't. 
Some  old  cuddies  tell  you  they  drink  because  they've  no 
teeth  to  masticate  their  meat,  and  ale  slips  down  easier  than 
crust.  One  chap  drinks  to  make  him  warm,  and  another  to 
make  him  cool.  Some  take  it  for  company's  sake,  and  some 
to  keep  company  out.  But,  Lord  bless  us,  it's  all  same  i'  end. 
It  gans  down  slippy  and  makes  'em  better  men.  I've  oft 
thought  myself,  after  a  glass  or  two,  that  I  should  like  to 
gan  to  church  some  day  and  hear  a  hymn,  and  slive  out 
before  the  sermon.  But  that's  never  a  thought  of  mine 
when  I'm  sober.  I've  over  much  sense.  Why,  you  know 
yourself  it  loosens  a  man's  heart,  if  he's  got  one,  and  gives 
him  syke  feelings  as  women  read  out  o'  Bible.  A  glass  o' 
good  stuff  is  as  good  as  a  prayer  at  times,  and  helps  trade. 
If  I  could  have  kept  drunk  all  my  life  I  think  I  should  be 
sure  of  going  to  heaven,  for  I've  made  all  my  best  resolu- 
tions then  —  and  only  getting  sober  stopped  me  fro'  keeping 
them." 

"  You  have  your  own  views,  Pridgeon,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"  Aye,  but  the  whisky's  on  my  side  too,"  Pridgeon  retorted. 
"  Don't  forget  that." 

"  I  don't  forget  it,"  the  Doctor  answered,  "  to  my  sorrow. 
But  there's  a  duty  facing  me  now.  I've  put  my  hand  to  the 
plow,  and  if  I'm  only  strong  enough  .  .  .  there  shall 
be  no  turning  back.  It  makes  me  sick  to  think  of  these  years 
wasted !  " 

"  Wasted !  "  cried  Pridgeon.     "  And  all  the  times  we've 


96  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

had  together!  That  there  weren't  more  of  'em  is  only  your 
own  fault.  You  threw  away  your  opportunities,  and  some 
day  you'll  live  to  regret  them.  What  more  do  you  ask  of 
life?" 

"  Many  things,"  said  the  Doctor.  "  All  the  things  I  have 
deliberately  cast  aside." 

"  Well,  let  those  be  a  warning  to  you,"  said  the  farmer, 
"  before  you  cast  aside  any  more.  It's  easier  to  cast  aside 
than  to  pick  up.  No  year  comes  twice  over." 

"  Would  to  God  it  did,"  the  Doctor  exclaimed,  "  and  I 
could  have  them  all  back.  But  if  one  can't  mend  the  old, 
one  can  try  at  least  and  better  the  new.  I'm  going  to 
attempt  it,  anyhow.  Don't  think  I  mean  to  preach,  but 
there  are  one  or  two  things  I  must  put  plainly  to  you  before 
you  go  to-night.  The  first  is  ...  well,  you've  seen  for 
yourself ;  this  place  is  no  longer  a  public-house.  The  second 
is  —  and  I'm  sorry  to  say  it,  Pridgeon  —  that  until  you  are 
prepared  to  pay  a  little  more  attention  to  your  own  character 
and  ways  of  life,  I  can't  invite  you  to  make  such  liberal  use 
of  my  front  door.  You'll  know  what  I  mean.  We  have  both 
of  us  to  face  the  position." 

As  the  Doctor  had  spoken  Pridgeon's  familiar  smile  kept 
closing  and  opening  irresolutely,  like  a  door  loose  on  its 
hinges.  At  the  last  words  it  blew  suddenly  wide  with  a 
great  gust  of  breath  that  was  scarcely  laughter,  although 
it  had  some  of  the  superficial  features  of  it. 

"  By  Shot !  "  said  the  farmer.  "  That's  straight  enough  — 
in  face  of  Hunmouth  Fair  and  all.  You  mean,  now  you've 
got  yon  lass,  I'm  not  good  enough  to  come  and  sit  with  you 
any  longer.  Is  that  why  you'd  gotten  door  snecked  ?  " 

"  There's  no  question,"  the  Doctor  said,  "  of  being  good 
enough,  Pridgeon,  and  no  man  should  know  that  better  than 
you.  But  .  .  .  well !  what's  the  use  of  mincing  mat- 
ters. Things  can't  go  on  here  as  they  have  done,  it  stands  to 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  97 

sense.  The  girl  comes  to  me  —  I'm  the  only  guardian  she 
has  —  and  I  can't  do  less  than  my  duty.  I'm  going  to  take 
up  my  responsibilities  in  earnest." 

"  Then,"  said  Pridgeon,  his  smile  like  a  compass  needle, 
still  oscillating  betwixt  the  quarters  of  amusement  and  in- 
credulity, "  you  mean  you're  giving  me  the  sack  ?  Is  that 
it?"  , 

"  No,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  that's  not  it,  Pridgeon.  I'm 
giving  myself  the  sack  —  or,  rather  the  self  you've  seen  so 
much  of.  You  know  very  well  that  you  and  I  —  apart  from 
the  whisky  —  have  not  much  in  common.  Only  the  harness 
of  drink  has  kept  us  together.  I  know  little  about  farm- 
ing. You  care  less  about  doctoring." 

"  Why,  it's  a  dowly  trade,"  Pridgeon  admitted.  "  I  don't 
see  how  a  man  can  keep  going  at  it  fairly,  without  some- 
thing to  hold  his  head  up." 

The  Doctor  continued :  "  I've  not  touched  a  drop  since 
you  saw  me  last  —  and  I  feel  another  man.  Besides,  I 
have  a  hundred  interests  now  to  keep  me  busy.  There's  the 
girl  to  consider.  And  I  want  to  have  the  garden  put  in 
order.  When  I  look  at  it  now  and  think  of  all  the  hours  my 
dear  mother  bestowed  on  it  when  she  was  living,  I  can't 
find  thoughts  for  myself.  And  the  house,  too,  needs  set- 
ting to  rights  bit  by  bit.  I'm  going  to  make  a  clean  breast 
of  everything,  and  begin  all  over  again.  When  you  saw  I 
was  in  earnest  about  being  sober  in  the  old  days  you  used  to 
clear  off  and  stop  away  until  you  had  given  me  time  to  see 
my  folly.  Well,  now  I'm  going  to  be  sober  for  good.  No 
whisky.  No  sitting  up  till  daybreak.  No  strong  language 

—  except  just  now  and  again.     No  sleeping  on  my  sofa, 
while  I'm  away." 

"  By  heaven ! "  cried  the  farmer.  "  Old  Dendy  himself 
will  be  having  a  livelier  time  of  it,  wherever  he  is.  Well," 

—  he  knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe  against  the  marble 

7 


98  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

fireplace  and  gave  a  laugh  — "  troubles  never  come  singly," 
he  said.  "  But,  the  Lord  be  praised,  I've  the  heart  of  a 
cork."  He  laughed  again.  "  You'll  have  heard,  I  suppose  ?  " 

The  Doctor's  face  took  on  a  sterner  mold. 

"  I  was  there  last  night.     They  called  me  about  eleven." 

"  Boy  or  lass  ?  "  asked  Pridgeon. 

"  Boy,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"  Aye.  I  heard  tell  it  was  a  boy.  What  sort  of  a  young- 
ster is  he  ?  " 

"  A  fine,  healthy  chap  —  God  help  him." 

"  He  is  ?  "  cried  the  farmer  with  enthusiasm.  "  That's 
good.  And  how  did  she  take  it?  I  asked  her  brother  this 
morning  as  he  was  riding  by,  but  he  told  me  to  go  to  hell. 
I  said  I'd  follow  him  on." 

"  She  took  it  badly,"  said  the  Doctor.  "  I  had  to  chloro- 
form." 

"You  had?  Well,  that's  a  rum  'un  —  and  syke  a  fine, 
strong  lass  and  all.  But  women  differ  a  deal.  Yon  other 
was  up  at  week  end.  How's  she  coming  on  now  ?  " 

"Better.  She'll  pull  through  all  right."  There  was  a 
pause.  "  I  suppose  it's  you,  Pridgeon  ?  " 

"Why,  so  they  say." 

"  You  don't  deny  it." 

"  Nay,  what's  the  good  ?  I  don't  deny  I  used  to  see  a 
fairish  bit  of  the  lass  at  one  time.  Aye,  and  a  nice  lass  she 
was  too.  I  will  say  that  for  her,  whatever  her  faults  now. 
There's  none  of  her  friends  sorrier  for  what's  happened  her 
than  me.  And  yet  some  folks  are  ready  to  blame  a  man  for 
badness,  as  though  he'd  meant  it  from  the  first.  Why,  what 
—  after  all  " —  he  took  up  with  a  return  to  his  old  brightness 
— "  she'll  get  over  it  like  I've  had  to  do  in  the  past.  There's 
tricks  in  all  trades.  A  man  can  get  over  everything  when 
he  once  knows  how,  and  so  can  a  woman.  And  yon  lass  will 
weep  over  bairn,  spill  tears  on  his  head,  and  yet  hold  out 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  99 

her  arms  for  him  minute  he's  ta'en  away  from  her.  What's 
use  o'  looking  on  the  darker  side  of  things?  A  bairn's  a 
bairn,  and  a  mother's  a  mother.  I  don't  think  any  the  worse 
o'  the  poor  wench  for  what's  happened.  And  let  those  that 
throw  the  first  stone  look  to  themselves." 

The  Doctor  gazed  at  the  radiant  face  intently. 

"  Are  you  going  to  marry  her,  Pridgeon?" 

"Marry  her!"  cried  Pridgeon.  "What?  With  yon  old 
mother  of  mine  at  home,  and  a  big  farm  to  look  after.  That 
would  be  making  a  bad  job  worse.  Lord  knows  I  don't 
bear  the  lass  any  ill-will,  for  all  she's  pulled  my  name  intiv 
it,  and  I'll  do  anything  reasonable  to  help  her  out  of  the 
mess  she's  got  into,  but  I  don't  see  why  I  should  be  called 
on  to  marry  her.  It  might  have  happened  to  anybody  just 
as  soon  as  me.  It's  a  natural  sort  of  thing  in  a  way.  Damn 
it  all,  Doctor,  if  you'd  been  half  a  man  and  kept  your  eyes 
open  the  tale  might  have  applied  to  you."  He  took  up  his 
hat. 

"  Well,  then,"  he  said,  with  the  expansive  smile  for  de- 
parture, "  I'm  jealous  I  can't  do  a  deal  of  good  by  stopping. 
And  I  won't  deny  it's  dry  work  smoking  without  anything 
to  moisten  your  pipe.  I'm  sorry  you  won't  gan  with  me  to 
Hunmouth.  It'll  be  a  hard  job  holding  old  Medling  up,  and 
I  know  I  shall  have  to  drink  a  lot  more  than  I  care  for. 
.  .  .  How's  lass?"  he  asked. 

The  Doctor  assumed  a  casual  tone  in  saying  she  was  quite 
well. 

"  Am  I  to  see  her  before  I  gan?  " 

"  Why,  she's  with  Anne  now.     We  won't  disturb  them." 

Pridgeon  laughed  sagaciously. 

"  Good-by,"  he  said,  and  looked  round  the  room.  "  Aye, 
I've  had  many  a  good  drink  in  the  past.  And  it's  a  grand 
room  for  the  job.  But  I'm  hoping  things  aren't  as  black  as 
you  think  they  are.  You  and  I'll  be  sitting  together  under 


ioo  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

yon  lamp  again  many  a  night  when  you've  thrown  off  your 
trouble."  In  the  hall  he  turned  round  again  and  flashed  a 
beam  of  penetrative  laughter  on  to  the  Doctor's  face. 
"  Good  Lord !  "  he  cried,  "  I  can't  think  you're  serious,  even 
now.  Are  you  ?  "  He  held  the  light  of  his  laughter  on  the 
Doctor's  features  and  saw  the  faint  gleam  of  amusement 
still  flickering  over  the  new  purpose.  "  Aye,  by  Go',  you  are 
and  all,"  he  said.  "  I'd  rather  it  had  happened  to  any  man 
but  you." 

He  went  off  whistling  down  the  steps,  and  the  Doctor 
watched  him  with  an  extension  of  friendly  interest  until  he 
plunged  into  the  drive.  Then  he  closed  the  door,  with  his 
lips  formed  to  the  word  "  Jane."  But  the  girl's  face  was 
already  peeping  round  the  green-baize  door,  and  the  moment 
he  turned  inward  she  ran  forward  with  the  greasy  pack  in 
her  hand.  It  was  like  turning  from  the  old  dark  life  to  face 
the  new,  with  all  its  cares  and  compensations. 


XIII 

WITH  the  dawning  of  his  new  life  the  Doctor  dedi- 
cated himself  afresh  to  the  district's  needs,  and 
what  had  been  but  a  periodic  glimpse  of  his  better  nature 
all  these  years,  viewed  through  a  questionable  medium  (as 
people  are  sometimes  permitted  to  take  their  peeps  of  a 
house's  best  parlor  through  an  obliquity  in  the  blinds),  be- 
came, under  the  new  influence,  his  steadfast  and  unalterable 
phase.  When  he  threw  his  greeting  now,  along  the  road- 
way, there  was  a  ring  in  it  as  if  he  had  flung  a  coin.  Now 
that  no  folds  of  perversity  wrapped  him  to  himself,  and 
his  hands  were  free  to  do  the  dictates  of  his  heart,  it  seemed 
he  had  taken  all  these  people  to  his  bosom.  He  had  a  word 
for  each  —  a  mere  phrase,  perhaps,  but  warm  as  a  roast  po- 
tato, to  be  nursed  in  grateful  hands  long  after  the  donor 
had  passed  by.  Old  Stebbing  the  roadmender  walked  home 
in  his  padded  legs  with  his  head  nodding  reminiscent  pride 
at  each  step,  because  the  Doctor  had  asked  if  he  did  not  find 
it  cold  work  sitting  on  the  stone-heap.  The  courtesy  warmed 
him  like  wine.  He  proffered  a  glass  to  everybody  on  his 
way,  and  kept  sipping  it  himself  between  whiles  with  an  ever- 
growing appreciation.  "  Aye,  he's  a  gentleman,  you  may 
depend,"  he  told  his  hearers.  And  to  himself,  "  I  wouldn't 
wonder  noo  if  he  was  to  gie  me  a  sixpence  at  Christmas. 
Aye,  and  a  shilling  wouldn't  surprise  me,  though  I  shouldn't 
look  for  it." 

Although  the  incident  is  trifling,  it  is  perhaps  worthy  of 
record  that  he  got  the  shilling,  and  spat  on  both  sides  of  it 
respectfully  in  the  compliments  of  the  season  before  con- 

101 


102  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

signing  it  to  his  pocket,  and  therefrom  (in  its  sublimated 
state)  to  the  pages  of  history.  That  shilling  did  pounds' 
worth  of  service  in  building  a  pediment  for  the  Doctor's 
future  fame. 

"  There's  a  deal  o'  folk,"  said  old  Stebbing  to  such  as  would 
listen  to  him,  "  that  says  '  I  know '  instead  of  '  I'm  telt/ 
Noo,  when  you're  telt  a  thing,  it's  'appen  right  or  it's  'appen 
wrong,  but  when  ye  know  for  yoursen,  ye  need  nobody  to 
tell  ye.  Them  that  says  aught  again  Doctor,  just  send  'em 
to  me,  and  I  can  tell  'em  summut  that'll  mebbe  make  'em 
change  their  opinion  quick.  There's  many  people,"  he  went 
on,  "  that  talks  a  lot  and  sees  me  every  day  o'  their  lives 
almost,  and  all  they  can  do  at  year  end  is  to  wish  me  a 
merry  Christmas.  Aye,  but  that's  not  Doctor's  way.  He 
dizn't  only  wish  it,  he  gies  it.  That's  what  I  call  practical 
Christianity.  I  only  wish  somebody  mud  bring  it  round  to 
vicar's  ears.  It  would  do  him  a  deal  o'  good  to  clap  yon 
cap  on  his  lugs." 

Not  that  this  honored  shilling  was  the  only  advocate 
of  the  Doctor's  quality.  His  remembrance  of  Christian 
names  and  intimate  knowledge  of  family  history,  his  brief 
references  to  absent  sons  and  distant  daughters,  endeared 
him  to  Sunfleet  bosoms,  and  made  him  as  looked-for  as  the 
post,  and  infinitely  more  popular,  since  he  never  disappointed 
expectation.  In  his  new  rough  overcoat  of  Irish  frieze,  with 
serviceable  storm-collar  and  business-like  belt,  with  his  tweed 
cap  and  buckskin  driving-gloves,  his  stout  boots  and  leg- 
gings, he  struck  a  note  of  manly  strength  and  skilled  honesty 
that  made  his  busy  figure  a  sort  of  bank  for  the  deposit 
and  custody  of  hopes.  The  Doctor  no  longer  was  the  repre- 
sentative of  a  moribund  trade,  a  public  necessity,  like  the 
taxgatherer,  but  a  bustling  emblem  of  vitality,  himself  alive 
and  kindling  sick  hopes  with  smiles.  Sunfleet  maidenhood, 
seeing  the  miracle  wrought  in  this  man  of  silence,  the  sparkle 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  103 

in  his  eye,  and  the  alert  word  on  his  lips,  commenced  to  pine 
at  window-panes  again,  and  flatten  their  noses  at  the  glass 
for  the  last  glimpse  of  his  passage,  and  rebroider  the  Doctor 
with  busy  needle  fancies  into  the  fabric  of  their  hopes,  like 
an  old  pattern  long  discarded,  but  taken  up  anew  and  liked. 

And  the  instrument  of  all  this  wonder  was  the  blue-eyed 
girl. 

Strange  and  incalculable.  The  same  force  that  had  de- 
termined the  Doctor's  descent  was  effecting  his  regeneration. 
Those  deep  and  bitter  waters  of  memory  by  which  he  had 
sorrowed  so  long  were  become  for  him  a  pool  of  miracle  and 
healing.  From  immersion  in  their  living  wave  he  had  arisen 
restored  and  confident,  full  of  hunger  for  life,  and  zeal  for 
the  discharge  of  his  new  and  unattempted  duties.  The  eyes 
of  Hilda  Brennan,  purged  of  all  their  one-time  promise, 
appealing  no  longer  to  the  lover  but  to  the  guardian,  and 
offering  no  allurement  but  a  child's  gratitude  and  the  spiritual 
blessing  that  floats  from  a  grave  —  these  eyes,  fined  of  all 
their  offending  in  the  furnace  of  time,  and  looking  at  him 
from  under  the  child's  brows,  were  his  incentive  and  his 
reward.  The  pride  of  veritable  parentage,  a  strange  emotion 
compounded  of  tenderness  for  the  latent  beauty  and  fragility 
of  childhood,  and  the  joy  of  guardianship  and  possession,  as 
though  by  all  his  suffering  he  had  had  a  share  in  the  girl's 
creation  —  this  pride  rose  up  in  him  like  a  star,  sustaining 
and  illuminating  him.  Her  eyes  were  ever  in  his  heart  and 
in  his  thoughts.  He  framed  images  of  her  lips,  nursed 
pictures  of  her  poutings  and  her  passions,  her  fitfulness  and 
charm.  Just  as  her  own  mother  had  known  and  appre- 
hended them,  he  feared  the  girl's  faults,  and  yet  cherished 
them,  too,  with  all  a  parent's  indulgence,  as  frail  things  call- 
ing by  their  very  weakness  for  a  more  special  guardianship 
of  love.  When  he  kissed  the  girl  good-night,  it  was  never 
without  an  emotion  to  think  that  so  much  beauty  and  prom- 


104  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

ise,  so  much  tenderness  and  possibility  should  be  within  the 
supreme  compass  of  his  keeping.  Nay,  at  such  moments 
he  touched  her  with  a  sort  of  sacred  fear  —  the  fear  that 
children  have  when  suffered  to  hold  for  one  brief  pulsing 
moment  all  the  fate  of  some  priceless  porcelain  in  their 
tense  fingers  —  when  he  thought  how  fragile  are  hopes,  and 
how  easily  lives  are  broken.  She  might  linger,  perhaps,  in 
the  night's  farewell  with  her  arms  about  his  neck,  and  he 
might  know,  in  his  heart  of  hearts,  that  this  protracted 
leave-taking  was  less  inspired  by  love  than  by  the  childish 
ruse  to  steal  a  few  more  coveted  moments  from  her  bed 
and  propitiate  her  soul  with  this  small  theft  accomplished  — 
as  cats  will  steal,  at  times,  to  reinstate  their  predatory  pride 
—  but  the  stolen  moments  (though  he  let  her  taste  the  joy 
of  her  own  cunning,  as  he  might  have  let  the  cat  purchase 
its  soul's  content  with  a  surreptitious  lick  at  the  plate's  edge) 
were  not  less  sweet  because  they  were  windows  to  the  girl's 
small  bosom.  Through  these  dear  doll's  panes  he  looked  in- 
dulgently at  the  miniature  foibles  arrayed  within.  So  girlish, 
so  very  feminine,  and  so  forgivable.  What  matter  that  the 
impetuous  clasping  of  her  arms  about  his  neck  was  only  part 
love  and  part  dissimulation?  He  forgave  the  dissimulation 
for  the  love,  and  forgave  it  more  freely  because  it  was  so 
little  deceptive  that  it  never  deceived. 

He  was  conscious  of  an  unworthy  tendency  to  cultivate 
the  sunny  side  of  the  girl's  disposition  at  all  cost,  found 
himself  seeking  propitiations  to  her  tears,  mean  offerings  to 
bribe  her  smiles.  For  when  she  sulked  or  repudiated  the 
better  evidences  of  his  wise  love  with  a  chill  brow  and  a 
contracted  nose,  the  sunniest  day  —  for  the  Doctor  —  turned 
in  an  instant  cold ;  he  felt  the  need  of  upturned  collar  and 
mufflered  neck,  and  plotted  schemes  of  reconciliation  that 
might  not  cost  his  conscience  too  dear.  And  yet,  though 
duty  wounded  him  more  harshly  than  ever  it  hurt  the  girl  — 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  105 

like  a  spring-trap  closing  on  the  liberative  fingers  that  would 
set  its  captive  free  —  the  conscientious  part  of  his  mother  in 
him  sustained  him  in  these  issues  for  the  most  part,  even 
though  he  sighed  at  the  pain  their  necessities  caused  him 
under  the  girl's  rebuff.  Through  all  his  leniency  and  in- 
dulgence he  cherished  the  parent's  desire  that  no  weakness 
of  his  own  should  intercept  her  welfare.  And  soon,  too,  he 
came  to  know  the  parent's  distress  when  it  finds  grim  duty 
like  the  rock  that  seals  the  sepulcher  of  love.  "  Aye,"  the 
housekeeper  would  tax  him  at  times,  when  some  petty  of- 
fending of  the  girl's  had  been  compounded,  and  the  Doctor 
had  won  a  kiss  and  a  clasp  from  those  triumphant  arms  at 
the  price  of  his  own  peace,  "  that's  way  to  spoil  a  lass  like 
yon.  If  she  comes  tiv  a  bad  end,  where's  the  wonder  ?  She 
wants  a  woman  to  deal  wi'  her." 

He  knew  it.  And  when  the  older  woman  reminded  him 
that  indulgence  had  been  her  mother's  downfall,  it  chilled  his 
apprehension  in  a  minute.  God  forbid  this  gentle  tran- 
script of  the  dead  woman  should  ever  shed  her  tears  on  such 
a  path  and  lay  the  course  to  him. 

Strange  perversity  of  human  nature,  singularly  exemplified 
in  this  Sunfleet  doctor.  Though  he  prosecuted  the  girl's 
enduring  welfare  with  a  sincerity  of  heart  that  seemed  dimly 
to  irradiate  even  his  sleeping  hours  like  a  night-light,  he 
treasured  the  knowledge  of  her  conscious  dominion  over  him. 
It  stirred  a  sort  of  allegiant  pride  in  his  bosom.  For  after 
all  she  was  the  daughter  of  his  once  betrothed.  Past  and 
present  mingled  in  her  and  made  her  doubly  dear.  Her 
willfulness  seemed  founded  on  that  cherished  intimacy  of 
the  by-gone  years.  Her  assumption  of  authority  was  but 
the  recontinuance  of  that  older  coveted  yoke.  Her  tears 
.  .  .  Aye !  her  tears  were  drops  of  holy  water,  even  when 
they  asperged  passion  and  lay  on  angered  lashes.  And  her 
name !  That  brief  monosyllable  of  mere  domestic  utility, 


106  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

like  a  milkjug  with  not  even  a  blue  border  round  it;  a  title 
to  be  listed  with  the  kitchen  necessities :  mace,  nutmeg,  rice, 
salt,  sago,  jane  and  black-lead  —  how  dear  it  became  in 
usage. 

Jane.     .     .     .     Jane.     .     .     . 

Say  it  over  softly  a  number  of  times  and  see  how  beauti- 
ful it  can  become.  As  prim  as  the  kitchen  clock;  as  brief 
as  an  oyster  that  slips  down,  vinegary,  in  one  syllable ;  whose 
enchantment  endures  but  a  moment  and  cannot  be  perpetu- 
ated save  by  repeating  the  whole  process;  as  cool  as 
crockery ;  as  blunt  as  the  oven  knob ;  a  little  demure,  it  may 
be,  like  muslin  —  but  O !  so  charming  when  it  rustles  and 
is  stirred  by  girlish  animation,  and  becomes  wayward  and 
alive.  And  when  it  is  associated  by  a  hundred  ties  with 
beggar-my-neighbor  and  dominoes,  and  gardening,  and 
drives  and  long  walks,  and  good-nights  and  good-mornings, 
and  Shan'ts  and  Don't  Cares,  and  Do  you  love  me?  .  .  . 
then  .  .  .  then  what  a  name. 

A  name  brimming  with  responsibilities  like  the  pail  that 
brought  catastrophe  to  Jack  and  Jill;  a  burden  and  a 
reward.  A  name  so  dear  that  the  Doctor  cannot  dismiss 
it ;  cannot  find  in  his  wavering  heart  to  buy  a  box  for  it  and 
send  it  away  to  school,  packed  up  with  grammars  and  tears 
and  a  new  cake. 

For  how  can  he  love  her  and  look  after  her  once  she 
is  away  at  school?  What  is  to  become  of  him  without  an 
object  of  his  daily  care  —  without  this  human  slip  trans- 
planted into  his  heart's  garden  to  watch  and  tend? 

Dear  though  she  is  to  him,  he  cannot  hope  to  have  hef 
always  by  his  side.  The  months  of  autumn  and  of  wintry 
mist  have  broken  naturally  the  circuit  of  their  daily  drive. 
The  habit,  once  interrupted,  is  laid  aside  like  a  garment,  to 
be  assumed  on  privileged  occasions.  For  a  whole  week  he 
has  left  her  behind  him  in  ill  weather  when  he  took  his 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  107 

journeys.  For  she  no  longer  pursues  him  with  that  first 
fierce  zeal  now  that  he  has  ceased  to  elude  her.  Externally 
their  relations  have  subsided  into  the  prosaic  intimacy  that 
comes  of  a  shared  roof.  She  calls  him  "  Numphy  "  in  her 
amicable  moods,  and  treats  him  with  the  delightful  casualty 
of  a  brother.  Of  respect,  of  course,  she  has  none;  she  has 
in  lieu  of  it,  sometimes,  the  shy  bearing  that  can  never 
deceive  any  eyes  that  have  once  witnessed  the  roman-candle 
drips  of  temper  fizzing  over  her  long  lashes,  or  seen  the 
breath  drawn  up  and  held  defiantly  behind  compressed 
nostrils  as  though,  till  she  had  gained  her  point,  she  meant 
never  to  breathe  again.  And  these  gala  moods  of  pyro- 
techny  too  are  become  more  rare,  and  certainly  more  sub- 
dued —  though  not  less  to  be  apprehended  when  purposes 
cross. 


XIV 

BUT  there  is  another  element  of  danger  growing  up 
within  the  girl's  empire;  and  that  is  her  beauty.  It 
has  not  permeated  completely  yet  its  childish  envelop,  but 
it  sheds  the  indubitable  light  of  its  approach  over  her  whole 
being,  as  when  the  unrisen  moon  kindles  the  soft  fabric  of 
a  cloud.  Distress  and  early  privation  had  set  their  grey 
seal  upon  her  countenance  during  the  days  of  that  first 
arrival,  and  retarded  for  a  while  her  natural  development. 
But  with  the  freer  life  and  altered,  better  surroundings  — 
the  sweeping  draughts  of  saline  fresh  air  to  blow  whistling 
tunes  between  her  white  teeth  when  she  faced  it,  and  pour 
its  invigorating  currents  into  her  lungs;  the  scent  of 
iodine  and  wide  waters  borne  over  the  Doctor's  garden 
from  ocean  and  river  —  her  advancement  took  a  new  step. 
When  the  rain  lashed  her  lips  to  a  deep  red,  and  stung  her 
cheeks  to  gleaming  crimson,  and  gave  a  humid  glisten  to 
her  eyes,  the  Doctor,  looking  at  her,  seemed  to  see  Hilda 
Brennan  brought  six  years  nearer,  as  though  this  growing 
daughter  were  a  fieldglass  to  the  past.  And  he  sighed  with 
a  sort  of  content,  whose  reverse  was  apprehension  to  think 
it  should  be  so.  His  eyes  rested  on  her  small  white  teeth 
when  the  lips  parted,  and  caught  solace  and  joy  from  their 
physical  wholeness.  They  should  be  tended,  these  treasures, 
as  dearly  as  properties  of  the  soul.  And  those  blue  eyes, 
too,  with  the  deeper  focus  coming  into  them,  shedding  al- 
ready the  shallow  gaze  of  the  child  —  they  must  be  pro- 
tected from  the  thoughtlessness  of  youth;  from  the  tyranny 
of  close  print  that  takes  its  victims  prisoner  by  dusk;  from 

108 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  109 

the  danger  of  cross  lights,  and  side  vision.  Under  his 
scrutiny  of  loving  care  it  rejoices  him  to  perceive  the 
material  nature  striving  to  write  its  message  in  perfected 
phrase ;  to  round  every  period  of  the  girl's  being  to  a  glori- 
ous physical  unity. 

For,  at  the  heart  of  him,  he  cherished  that  wholesome 
desire  for  the  well-being  of  the  body  which  is  humanity's 
message  from  paganism.  He  saw,  in  his  progress  through 
this  scattered  area  of  toil,  how  the  sacred  care  of  the  person 
was  superseded  by  every  other.  Puritanism  and  the  preach- 
ing of  corporal  mortification  as  a  means  to  holiness  and 
spiritual  safety  have  left  their  indelible  traces  over  this 
narrow  district.  The  tree  is  down,  but  its  roots  are  still 
embedded  in  the  soil,  strangling  growth,  and  impeding  a 
better  cultivation.  He  has  seen,  this  doctor,  how  the 
human  body  has  sunk  into  the  medium  of  mere  labor ; 
and  often  it  has  dismayed  him  and  sent  him  home  in  angry 
wonder.  Here  are  women  accounting  the  kitchen  floor  of 
more  consequence  than  their  own  persons ;  scouring  their 
hands  to  the  bone  that  the  hearthstone  may  excite  envy; 
spending  days  at  the  washtub  that  they  may  vindicate  a 
character  for  cleanliness  and  give  mankind  its  clean  shirt 
for  the  Sabbath;  scalding  churns  with  scrupulous  care; 
polishing  stoves  and  scrubbing  tables  while  bodies  go 
a-begging.  All  this  domestic  glory  of  gleaming  stove  and 
polished  hob,  of  red  tiles  and  scoured  pans  is  but  a  horrible 
tyranny;  a  conventional  juggernaut  rolling  over  its  ghastly 
consequences  of  pallid  cheeks  and  wasted  teeth,  coarse  hands 
and  bent  bodies.  Bodies?  Why,  the  body  hereabouts,  the 
Doctor  knows,  is  degraded  in  its  very  conception  to  a  mere 
term  of  shame;  a  thing  never  to  be  considered  apart  from 
its  outer  and  artificial  integument.  Sunfleet  understands 
the  nude  —  except  in  the  case  of  infancy,  which  is  displayed 
like  a  picture  in  its  nursing,  at  every  angle,  with  a  reckless 


no  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

exposure  —  it  understands  the  nude  but  as  a  thing  for  the 
farm  lads  to  look  at  for  a  penny  through  the  magnifying 
lenses  of  the  Fine  Art  Galleries  at  Hunmouth  Fair,  and 
quit  reluctantly  with  laughter,  elbowing  each  other's  ribs 
and  crying :  "  Well !  I  dean't  know !  "  When  old  Stebbing 
was  privileged  in  his  younger  days  to  take  a  surreptitious 
peep  round  the  great  hall  at  Button  Dene,  under  the  conduct 
of  the  butler,  who  peeped  through  doors  in  advance  of  him 
over  a  snuffy  nose,  and  then  said,  "  All  right.  Step  for- 
ward," the  one  thing  that  chiefly  astonished  him  was  the 
unbridled  nudity  of  the  house's  decoration.  He  made  much 
of  the  subject,  for  its  narration  secured  him  many  a  drink. 

"  What  I  call  brutish  things !  "  he  said,  in  reference  to  the 
statuary.  "  There  was  two  women  cut  oot  o'  marble  at  foot 
o'  stairs,  as  naked  as  ever  ye  seed  aught  i'  your  life,  holding 
lamps  and  all  —  as  though  they  couldn't  bide  ye  should  over- 
look 'em.  Aye!  right  i'  front  o'  staircase  they  was,  so  a 
decent  woman  couldn't  gan  tiv  her  bed  wi'oot  a  blush.  Not 
a  bit  o'  muslin  nor  naught.  But  there's  some  wickedness 
gans  on  i'  syke  big  places,  you  may  depend." 

The  pictures  dismayed  him  no  less. 

"  Nobody  would  believe,"  said  he,  "  what  sort  o'  brutish 
things  there  is  i'  yon  place,  wi'oot  they  seed  it  i'  print. 
Why,  there  was  yan  picture,  as  big  as  yon  gate  o'  Medling's, 
and  aboot  same  shape.  It's  the  God's  truth,  if  there  was 
yan  there  was  a  half-a-dozen  full-grown  women  set  oot  on 
grass,  as  if  they  was  averishing,  wi'oot  a  rag  to  their  backs. 
Aye,  an'  little  naked  bairns  spluttering  aboot  their  legs  and 
all.  Noo  you  may  depend  I  felt  queer  when  I  stopped  i' 
front  o'  that  —  as  close  as  I  is  to  you  —  though  there  was 
nobbut  me  and  John  Podmore  i'  spot  together.  But  what 
would  a  respectable  body  feel  like,  think  you,  wi'  two  or 
three  more  respectable  folk  beside  hissen?  Where  would 
they  all  'a  to  look?" 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  ill 

"  Was  there  any  more  pictures  o'  same  sort  ?  "  asked  Sun- 
fleet,  inquirous  after  truth  at  such  moments. 

"  Any  more  ?  "  said  Stebbing  in  contempt  of  the  question. 
"  If  I  said  '  Well,  that's  a  capper ! '  once,  I  said  it  a  hundred 
times.  And  each  semt  to  cap  t'  other.  Even  Podmore  hissen 
was  bound  to  say,  '  Aye,  it  is  a  bit  of  a  rum  'un.'  There  was 
a  youngish  woman  —  mebbe  about  twenty-four  or  twenty- 
five  (about  as  big  as  yon  eldest  daughter  o'  Willi'm  Belton's, 
and  something  similar  i'  build,  seeming) — stood  by  a  piece 
o'  marble  as  bare  as  my  chin.  She'd  gotten  one  hand  set  i' 
front  of  her  —  as  though  keeping  flies  off  —  and  another  a 
bit  higher  ways  up,  as  much  as  to  say  '  Don't  look.'  Aye, 
but  she  didn't  mean  it,  for  she  was  a  brazzent  one,  you  may 
depend,  and  was  stood  laughing  fit  to  kill  hersen.  I  won't 
gan  so  far  as  to  say  she  wasn't  a  good-looking  lass,  for  she 
was.  John  Podmore  nudges  me  wi'  his  elbow  and  says : 
'  Noo  that's  my  fancy.'  Aye,  and  he  did  tell  me  the  lass' 
name  —  though  I  never  rightly  got  hold  on  it.  He  said 
hundreds  o'  folk  cam  to  look  at  her  i'  course  o'  year.  And 
what  licked  me,  there  was  parsons  came  and  all  —  so  it's 
likely  folks  gets  a  deal  o'  good  with  going  to  church.  One 
syke  fellow  was  that  lost  i'  wickedness  that  he  brought  his 
daughter  wi'  him  regular  three  days  a  week,  and  stood  over 
her  while  she  made  a  copy  wi'  a  paintbox  and  a  bit  o'  wood. 
Aye!  A  nice  respect  she'll  have  for  her  father  when  he's 
dead." 

The  views  of  old  Stebbing  on  the  body  material  are  the 
latent  views  of  Sunfleet.  These  corruptible  frames  are  to 
be  "  sown  in  dishonor,"  as  St.  Paul  puts  it,  clothes  being 
but  a  transitory  coffin  for  the  flesh,  as  Purgatory  is  a 
passing  place  for  the  spirit.  Nowhere  is  there  the  dimmest 
conception  that  human  life  should  seek  to  attain  the  heaven 
of  a  present  physical  content  through  a  cultivation  of  all 
its  members.  Often  when  the  Doctor  has  driven  home  dis- 


ii2  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

pirited  from  his  rounds,  with  recollections  of  childish  bodies 
being  brutalized  to  the  premature  use  of  buckets;  of  girlish 
shoulders  bent  in  a  senseless  worship  of  floors,  and  chests 
contracted  in  laborious  service  to  some  mogul  of  a  grate  — 
often,  catching  sight  thereafter  of  the  vicarial  hat,  or  some 
stray  ministerial  migrant,  he  has  cast  the  brief  contemptuous 
look  of  the  skilled  workman  for  unprofitable  labor  and 
muttered  to  himself :  "  Yes.  If  you  would  only  quit  your 
litanies  and  special  collects  and  teach  the  people  the  whole- 
some worship  of  the  body  instead  .  .  .  you  would  be 
doing  better  service." 

And  now  there  comes  a  living  encouragement  to  his  be- 
lief like  an  apt  text  turned  up  by  chance  fingers.  He  takes 
quiet  looks  at  the  girl's  young  beauty.  Can  she  ever  strike 
an  ugly  attitude,  he  asks  himself,  or  betray  some  incom- 
pleteness of  physical  harmony  by  a  brief  discordant  pose? 
And  he  says  it  seems  not.  She  has  the  native  instinct  of 
her  sex  for  movement,  and  the  effective  lines  of  her  own 
body. 

"  She  will  be  beautiful,"  the  Doctor  told  himself.  "  She 
will  be  as  beautiful  as  her  mother." 

And  within  the  precincts  of  his  own  heart,  and  the  cinc- 
ture of  the  big  house  grounds,  he  joyed  that  it  should  be  so. 
Hoped  it.  Prayed  for  it  in  so  far  as  prayer  involves  no 
conscious  shutting  of  the  eyes  and  spreading  of  fingers. 
But  when  he  looked  afield  and  saw  all  the  dangers  inciden- 
tal to  beauty,  to  think  of  the  future  made  him  grave.  Then, 
indeed,  he  wished  his  mother  could  have  offered  him  more 
than  the  refuge  of  a  memory,  and  lent  this  wayward  child 
the  blessing  of  her  arms. 


XV 

ALMOST  as  well  known  as  the  Doctor  in  Sunfleet  itself 
—  though  less  familiar  in  the  district  round  —  is  the 
deaf  old  Sunfleet  vicar,  with  his  wide-brimmed  hat  of 
hard  felt,  and  the  left  arm  carried  in  the  small  of  his  back, 
and  the  right  arm  borrowing  solid  support  for  his  slightly 
stooping  stature  from  a  stout  ash  stick  —  at  such  time  as 
it  does  not  embrace  a  double-barreled  gun.  Mostly  he  may 
be  seen  along  the  Sunfleet  lanes,  bearing  the  gun  tucked 
under  his  shoulder,  accompanied  by  an  antiquated  field- 
spaniel  with  chocolate  ears  and  variegated  body,  that 
breathes  so  hard  the  rabbits  can  hear  it  a  field  off,  and  sits 
down,  every  time  its  master  stops,  to  draw  its  stomach  in 
and  out  to  a  multitude  of  rapid  breaths,  just  as  Barnes 
Welkit  preludes  a  few  silent  staves  on  his  accordion  (with 
the  damper  down)  before  startling  some  friend  in  the  back 
with  a  sudden  explosion  of  hymnody  on  the  high  road. 
This  pleasant  association  of  sporting  fancies  is  a  cherished 
remembrance  of  the  time  when  the  vicar  used  to  regale 
himself  with  a  hare  of  his  own  shooting  as  regularly  as 
harvest  came  round,  but  now  it  is  rare  indeed  you  hear  his 
gun,  and  consequently  the  prejudice  against  his  freedom  of 
the  field  is  dying  down. 

Like  the  Doctor  he  favors  the  single  life,  or  whether  he 
favors  it  or  not  (on  which  point,  too,  there  is  a  certain 
divergence  of  opinion),  at  least  he  follows  it,  which  is  more 
to  the  purpose.  Beyond  this  similarity  in  their  two  estates, 
however,  comparison  can  find  no  real  employment  between 
these  men.  The  vicar  is  in  the  mid  sixties;  the  height  of 
8  113 


ii4  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

a  once  tall  figure  is  being  slowly  absorbed  again  into  the 
stooping  frame.  He  has  gray  brows  and  gray  side-whiskers, 
and  the  lower  lip  has  acquired  the  protruding  curl  and  the 
broad  arrows  at  the  corners  that  the  years  mark  in  men 
whose  conversation  is  mostly  with  themselves,  and  who  have 
no  external  influences  to  draw  their  countenances  from  the 
fixed  habit. 

Parochially  the  vicar  is  of  small  account.  On  Sundays 
and  festivals  he  preaches  his  thirty-year-old  sermons  to  the 
handful  of  parishioners  that  the  Wesleyans  and  Primitives 
have  left  him.  He  assumes  a  headship  over  the  schools,  and 
is  willing  to  call  round  upon  such  trouble  as  knocks  twice  at 
the  left  ear. 

Much  more  congenial  to  the  vicar's  nature  than  the  care 
of  inconsistent  parishioners  is  his  care  of  the  garden,  se- 
cluded from  gale  and  blast. 

Next  to  the  garden,  his  nephews  occupy  the  chief  place 
in  the  vicar's  thoughts  and  affections.  Their  name  seems 
legion,  for  he  had  six  sisters  or  more  —  each  of  them  pro- 
lifically  married  —  and  if  at  any  moment  you  see  his  lips 
disunite  in  a  sanctified  smile,  you  may  be  quite  sure  it  is  a 
nephew,  and  not  a  text,  which  was  accountable  for  the  trans- 
formation. Much  proud  thinking  of  these  young  kinsmen 
along  the  Sunfleet  roads  seems  to  have  incorporated  them  so 
indivisibly  with  the  place  that  he  has  come  to  regard  them 
as  a  permanent  feature  of  Sunfleet's  interest,  and  broaches 
the  subject  of  a  nephew  at  all  times  with  the  indulgent  smile 
of  a  man  who  is  opening  a  bottle  that  he  knows  particularly 
favorite  to  his  company's  taste. 

In  the  early  days  he  had  known  and  esteemed  the  Doctor's 
mother.  Her  love  of  the  garden  had  won  his  heart  at  the 
first  encounter,  and  frequently  he  would  be  seen  directing 
his  steps  towards  the  big  house  to  bear  some  slip  or  cutting 
in  its  due  season;  with  a  trowelful  of  vicarage  soil;  or  some 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  115 

new  intelligence  about  his  nephews.  But  with  the  mother's 
death  his  perambulations  fell  further  and  further  short  of 
the  Doctor's  gate.  Now  and  then  a  stiff  greeting  was  inter- 
changed between  the  two  men  along  the  road ;  less  frequently 
they  came  to  handshakes  in  some  house  of  trouble.  The 
older  man  could  have  overlooked  those  more  personal  delin- 
quencies that  the  Doctor  thought  were  the  main  cause  of 
their  estrangement,  but  his  conduct  towards  the  garden  he 
could  not  forgive.  Openly  in  Sunfleet  he  deplored  the 
change,  and  shook  a  grave  head  when  the  Doctor's  name 
was  mentioned. 

For  twelve  years  he  had  never  been  nearer  to  the  big  red- 
brick house  than  the  roadway ;  pausing  at  times  in  the 
bleakness  of  winter  to  peer  through  the  lattice  of  bare 
branches  and  gaze  at  the  dull  building  beyond  with  such  a 
sigh  as  he  might  have  let  issue  before  a  tomb.  But  now, 
since  the  coming  of  the  girl,  and  the  circulating  accounts  of 
change  in  the  Doctor's  life  and  home,  there  seemed  to  be 
evidences  of  a  thaw  in  this  long  winter  of  estrangement. 
The  tidings  that  Tom  Fetch  was  putting  in  two  days  a  week 
regularly  at  the  garden,  and  sometimes  three;  and  that  the 
Doctor  had  even  under  contemplation  the  project  of  en- 
croaching on  the  paddock  for  a  tennis  lawn,  filled  him  with 
a  gladness  as  for  some  minor  good-fortune  among  his 
nephews. 

"  Thank  goodness  the  man's  conscience  is  pricking  him 
at  last,"  he  said.  And  added,  "  But  it's  to  be  hoped  he'll 
have  more  sense  than  to  allow  tennis  on  the  lawn  if  he  gets 
it." 

The  roadway  greetings  grew  more  cordial.  And  one  morn- 
ing in  May,  when  the  Doctor  was  reading  the  newspaper  after 
breakfast,  and  the  girl  was  seated  sideways  on  the  sunlit  sill 
of  the  big  window,  playing  with  the  tassel  of  the  blind  cord, 
the  housekeeper  plunged  a  screwed-up  face  abruptly  into  the 


n6  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

room  as  if  she  were  dipping  it  into  the  wash-basin,  and  with- 
drew it  as  quickly,  with  the  brief  whisper  — 

"  Vicar  wishes  to  have  a  word  wi'  you,  if  it's  convenient. 
He  won't  detain  you."  Adding  in  a  parenthetical  whisper, 
"  Antimacassar's  on  floor,  look  ye." 

The  girl  made  a  hurried  proffer  of  retirement,  but  the 
Doctor  bade  her  remain,  and  she  smoothed  her  frock.  Her 
presence  —  until  the  object  of  the  visit  dictated  otherwise  — 
was  as  a  stay  to  his  new  character;  and  besides,  he  was 
proud  of  her;  not  less  so,  possibly,  in  the  new  gray-check 
dress,  with  the  black  velvet  belt,  and  the  broad  black  ribbon 
in  her  hair.  He  noted,  with  the  quick  gratification  of  a  care 
ever  critically  exercised,  that  the  imminence  of  a  stranger 
drove  her  nearer  to  his  side,  as  to  her  proper  haven;  and  he 
was  glad  to  see  that  the  sun  fell  upon  her  hair  and  showed 
at  once  of  what  burnished  elements  its  masses  were  com- 
pounded. 

The  vicar,  dropping  a  sidelong  word  of  acknowledgment 
to  the  waiting  housekeeper,  came  into  the  room  with  lips 
relaxed  —  the  moment  his  eyes  had  penetrated  to  the  two 
occupants  —  to  a  smile  of  greeting,  and  an  extended  hand  that 
put  a  very  frank  bridge  over  these  twelve  or  thirteen  years. 
The  Doctor  was  as  prompt  with  his  own,  and  the  two  men 
met  in  a  brief  clasp  of  amity  on  its  midmost  arch. 

"  Ah,  Doctor  Bentham,"  said  the  vicar,  "  it  seems  rare 
we  meet  now-a-days.  I  know  you're  a  busy  man,  and  con- 
sequently I'm  not  going  to  keep  you."  He  turned  at  that 
towards  the  girl,  as  though  inviting  presentation,  and  the  Doc- 
tor explained. 

"  A  young  connection,  vicar ;  a  ward  of  mine,  though 
doubtless  you've  heard  about  her." 

"  Ah,  to  be  sure,  to  be  sure,"  he  cried,  shaking  the  soft 
fingers.  "  A  niece  of  yours,  Doctor,  I  believe." 

The  Doctor  said  hurriedly,  "  No,  no,  a  sort  of  half-cousin," 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  117 

but  he  said  it  to  the  wrong  ear,  and  the  vicar,  whose  deafness 
no  less  than  his  proclivities  made  him  a  better  speaker  than 
a  listener,  continued  without  pause  — 

"  Well,  well ;  my  purpose  is  not  to  detain  you,  my  friend. 
So  I'll  just  tell  you  what  my  mission  is,  and  then  you  must 
forgive  me  if  I  have  overstepped  the  limits  of  an  old  man's 
interest.  I  won't  say  an  old  '  parson's '  interest,  because  as 
I  tell  my  nephews,  I'm  afraid  there's  nothing  much  of  the 
parson  about  me.  But  I'm  told  you're  rather  undecided  as 
to  what  must  be  done  with  this  young  lady."  He  turned  a 
brief  smile  of  reassurance  on  the  girl,  and  then  addressed 
his  graver  look  towards  the  Doctor  once  more.  The  sudden 
mixture  of  color  on  the  Doctor's  face  may  have  told  him, 
perhaps,  that  his  words  had  been  misunderstood,  for  he 
added,  "  I  mean  with  regard  to  her  education.  Are  you 
sending  her  away  to  school  ?  " 

The  girl  draws  in  her  breath  —  the  Doctor  divines  —  and 
holds  it  expectantly  behind  the  narrow  line  of  nose;  and 
her  head  tilts  itself  a  trifle  higher,  and  the  lashes  meet,  so 
that  the  blue  eyes  scrutinizing  him  are  themselves  almost 
invisible.  For  the  question  has  already  been  blown  about 
between  these  three  of  the  house,  like  a  cuckoo  in  a  gale, 
seeking  how  best  it  may  accomplish  its  purpose  and  deposit 
the  fateful  egg  in  the  nest  of  present  happiness  for  that 
future  displacement. 

The  Doctor  stammered  over  the  word  school. 

"  Certainly ;  it  has  been  thought  of,"  he  said. 

"  But  I  am  not  to  go  away  until  the  Christmas  term,"  the 
girl  imparted  in  her  company  voice.  There  was  a  quiet 
menace  about  the  chill  tones  like  a  knife-blade  laid  down 
the  Doctor's  back,  and  he  was  prompt  to  endorse  the  girl's 
utterance. 

"  Well,  no.  You  see,"  he  made  haste  to  explain,  "  there  is 
so  much  sickness  about  in  summer.  I  want  Jane  to  build 


ii8  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

her  health  up  first  of  all.  As  a  medical  man  I  naturally  feel 
that  health  should  come  even  before  education." 

"  I  am  not  strong,"  Jane  added  for  the  vicar's  enlighten- 
ment. 

"  To  be  sure,  to  be  sure,"  the  vicar  responded.  "  And  if 
an  old  — "  the  smile  crept  over  him  — "  I  was  going  to  say 
'  parson '  again,  but  perhaps  I'd  better  say  old  man  instead. 
I'm  afraid  there's  a  prejudice  against  the  word  parson,  which 
I  share  myself,  and  which,  unfortunately,  is  rather  encour- 
aged by  some  of  my  own  colleagues.  As  you  know,  Doctor, 
I'm  not  one  who  pokes  his  nose  into  my  people's  affairs.  I 
try  and  trouble  them  as  little  as  possible.  Goodness  knows 
they  have  plenty  to  do  without  the  vicar's  interference.  But 
as  I  was  going  to  tell  you  —  if  an  old  man  may  give  advice 
to  the  Doctor,  I  would  say,  let  your  niece  "  (the  Doctor's 
quiet  correction  fell  on  the  deaf  ear  once  more) — "  let  your 
niece  go  into  the  garden  all  she  can.  It  is  the  best  medicine 
in  the  world  for  growing  children.  And  by  the  way,  I'm  so 
rejoiced  to  hear  you  are  maintaining  all  your  old  interest  in 
the  garden.  I  used  to  admire  your  mother's  auriculas  so 
much.  I  remember  bringing  her  a  cutting  of  wistaria  the 
day  my  eldest  sister's  youngest  boy  but  one  —  my  nephew, 
George  Ernest  —  Not  George  —  George,  of  course,  as  you'll 
know,  is  my  sister  Emily's  eldest  but  two.  Two !  What  am 
I  thinking  of?  I  should  say  three  —  my  eldest  sister's 
youngest  boy  but  one  was  appointed  junior  house-surgeon 
at  St.  Jeremy's." 

What  with  his  garden  and  his  nephews,  the  vicar's  mind 
is  such  an  amiable  tangle  of  briar-hooked  reminiscences  that 
he  finds  a  difficulty  in  tearing  his  way  through  to  the  plain 
object  of  his  visit.  But  he  reaches  it  at  last.  He  had  heard, 
he  cannot  say  how,  that  there  was  some  question  of  the  girl's 
remaining  at  Sunfleet  for  private  tuition,  and  in  this  case  he 
had  ventured  to  call  round  and  mention  the  name  of  his  old 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  119 

friend,  Miss  Perritt,  of  Peterwick  —  Why,  of  course;  the 
Doctor  must  know  her  quite  well.  She  is  a  patient  of  his. 

"  An  excellent  woman,  Doctor.  I  happen  to  know," 
the  vicar  continued,  "  that  she  was  recommended  to  apply 
for  the  position  in  Lord  Hockley's  family,  and  —  without 
betraying  confidences  —  I  may  say  that  her  application  was 
one  of  the  half-dozen  finally  considered.  I  saw  her  in  Pe- 
terwick only  yesterday  —  and  indeed,  it  was  her  mentioning 
of  the  matter  and  asking  whether  you  had  definitely  made 
plans  for  your  niece's  education  that  led  me  to  suggest  I 
would  call.  I  may  mention  that  she  was  for  a  long  time 
governess  to  the  late  vicar's  family,  and  until  quite  recently 
had  charge  of  that  Hunmouth  gentleman's  daughters.  She 
could  show  you  some  excellent  testimonials.  But  I  leave 
the  matter  entirely  with  you." 

No  matter,  however,  at  that  particular  moment  could 
have  found  more  hospitable  welcome  in  the  Doctor's  bosom, 
and  his  heart  glowed  in  secret  gratitude  to  the  man  who 
had  proffered  him  such  an  agreeable  alternative  to  the  girl's 
dismissal.  Dim  ideas  of  governesses,  indeed,  had  flitted 
through  his  mind,  but  he  had  shirked  exhuming  those 
mysterious  identities  from  their  narrow  anonymous  graves 
in  newspaper  print,  as  he  would  have  shirked  resurrecting 
a  corpse. 

"  It  is  uncommonly  kind  of  you,"  he  said,  "  to  take  so 
much  trouble,  and  I  shall  certainly  think  very  seriously  over 
the  proposal."  The  parental  feeling  to  prompt  those  little 
touches  of  politeness  that  are  sometimes  lacking  in  the 
initiation  of  childhood,  turned  him  towards  the  girl.  "  Jane, 
dear.  You  must  thank  Mr.  Farebrother  for  all  his  trouble 
and  kindness." 

The  girl's  face,  that  had  followed  her  fate  down  the  course 
of  the  conversation,  like  a  toy-boat  committed  to  the  river, 
and  perilously  irreclaimable,  with  an  inscrutable  transfer  of 


120  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

gaze  from  vicar  to  Doctor  and  back  again,  melted  the  look 
all  at  once  in  one  of  her  most  captivating  company  smiles. 
The  Doctor  contemplated  the  smile  with  the  same  pride 
that  the  vicar  would  have  indicated  a  dahlia  bloom  in  his 
own  garden,  and  the  vicar,  responding  with  a  careless,  "  Oh, 
that's  all  right,  my  dear,"  became  ten  years  younger  again  — 
almost  as  young  as  three  nephews  could  make  him  on 
occasions.  And  with  a  little  more  conversation,  chiefly  on 
gardens  and  nephews,  he  said  he  must  really  take  his  leave. 
But  at  the  hall-door  he  stopped,  and  inquired  in  the  more 
confidential  whisper,  "  Let  me  see.  I've  been  trying  to 
remember.  Is  it  her  father's  death  that  brings  the  poor 
child  here,  Dr.  Bentham?" 

"  Mother,"  said  the  Doctor,  somewhat  abruptly. 

"  Mother !  Ah,  to  be  sure.  To  be  sure.  An  accident, 
wasn't  it?  Now  I  remember.  Very,  very  sudden.  And 
her  father?" 

"  Dead,"  said  the  Doctor  with  a  firm  mouth.  "  Many 
years  ago." 

"  Dead  ?  Poor  child.  Poor  child."  He  assumed  his  hat. 
"  Give  her  all  the  garden  you  can,  Doctor.  After  such 
terrible  losses  she  needs  it." 

He  put  one  foot  on  the  step,  and  was  about  to  go  when 
again  he  turned. 

"  I  too  had  a  sad  loss,  this  spring,  Dr.  Bentham,"  he  said. 
"  Perhaps  you  would  hear  of  it." 

The  Doctor  composed  a  face  of  unenlightened  sympathy, 
and  uttered  those  preliminary  words  for  regret. 

"  That  beautiful  old  Stag's-horn  tree.  In  front  of  my 
study  window.  The  one  your  mother  admired  so  much. 
Blown  down  quite  suddenly,  in  March.  I  don't  know  when 
I  felt  anything  quite  so  deeply.  All  my  old  friends  are 
dropping  off  one  by  one.  Well,  good-bye,  Dr.  Bentham." 
There  were  actually  tears  in  his  eyes,  and  the  Doctor  made 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  121 

sure  he  would  not  turn  again,  but  almost  immediately  he 
did  so,  with  the  old  smile  shining  through  the  brief  traces  of 
this  recent  emotion. 

"  I  like  your  niece,  by  the  way,"  he  said.  "  Such  a  nice 
quiet,  modest,  ladylike  girl.  She  reminds  me  of  my  sister 
Mary's  daughter  Caroline.  '  Baby '  they  always  call  her  — 
though  surely  she's  close  to  fifteen  now.  Sings  beautifully, 
and  can  play  all  the  hymns,  ancient  and  modern,  with 
scarcely  a  mistake.  Don't  forget  to  bring  your  niece  round 
to  see  me  soon.  In  another  fortnight  or  so  the  garden  will 
be  at  its  best." 


XVI 


THE  Doctor  thinks  seriously  over  the  vicar's  suggestion, 
as  he  promised,  and  he  and  the  girl  drive  off  to  Peter- 
wick  and  see  Miss  Perritt  in  her  little  parlor  overlooking  the 
second-best  street  (having  previously  seen  her  perform  the 
vanishing  canary  trick  from  her  plate-glass  window)  and 
they  discuss  the  girl's  education  in  open  voices,  and  the  Doc- 
tor accompanies  Miss  Perritt,  at  her  express  invitation,  to  the 
kitchen  parlor  at  the  back  of  the  house  (though  the  house  it- 
self is  so  small  that  a  broad-chested  man  on  the  sidewalk 
might  almost  tap  both  windows  at  one  time)  where  Miss  Per- 
ritt's  voice  drops  into  a  whisper  of  mourning  with  a  crimped 
crape-edged  mouth,  as  she  says  — "  And  now,  Dr.  Bentham,  I 
should  just  like  to  discuss  one  or  two  rather  private  matters 
with  you,  please."  Whereupon  she  confesses  her  terms  with 
the  reluctance  for  delicate  symptoms,  begging  the  Doctor  to 
understand  that  "  she  would  not  name  this  (or  that)  but 
for  her  experience  that  such  things  are  better  discussed 
openly,  beforehand."  In  a  point  of  whispers  the  Doctor 
is  not  to  be  outdone.  His  consideration  for  the  lady's  feel- 
ings, indeed,  is  so  profound  that  on  vital  points  his  whispered 
delicacy  leads  her  to  utter  a  crisp  "  Pardon  ?  "  of  momentary 
anxiety,  as  cutting  as  a  church  cough.  But  between  these 
two  walls  of  ominous  whisper  (that  the  girl  can  hear  faintly 
in  the  front  much-antimacassared  room,  like  the  buzz  of 
captive  flies)  the  compact  is  amicably  sealed,  and  Miss 
Perritt  is  free  to  tell  the  Doctor  in  the  open  diapason  tones 
again,  when  they  return  — 

"  So  that  is  all  nicely  settled.     I  felt  drawn  to  your  little 

122 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  123 

relative  the  moment  I  saw  her,  Doctor.  I  am  sure  we  shall 
come  to  love  each  other  dearly  in  the  end."  Which  utter- 
ance of  affection  is  acknowledged,  on  the  girl's  side,  by  a  look 
which,  having  tried  to  describe  in  six  different  ways  without 
success,  I  now  give  up. 

So  the  prim  gardener  of  youthful  virtues  takes  up  her 
abode  in  the  Doctor's  house,  to  rake  and  hoe  the  neglected 
beds  of  the  girl's  education;  to  set  them  round  with  the 
correct  box-borders  of  English  grammar,  and  plant  within 
them  the  bulbs  of  wisdom  and  of  virtue;  history  and  geog- 
raphy and  a  knowledge  of  the  heavens  material  and  divine; 
music  and  French  —  with  such  common  and  useful  accom- 
plishments as  reading  and  writing;  arithmetic  and  plain  sew- 
ing cultivated,  like  cabbages,  in  the  kitchen  garden  of  the  girl's 
mind. 

They  begin  each  morning's  study  with  a  hymn,  these  two, 
that  Miss  Perritt  gives  out  on  the  ancient  piano  with  great 
precision  when  it  is  in  C  major  and  familiar ;  but  with  devout 
lingering  —  as  though  each  chord  were  a  separate  prayer  to 
be  pondered  over  —  when  it  happens  to  touch  four  flats. 
After  which  they  join  their  voices  —  with  a  half-tone  be- 
tween them,  like  paneling  that  has  shrunk;  for  Miss  Perritt 
has  a  pious  tendency  to  express  devotion  by  singing  sharp 
—  and  go,  verse  by  verse,  through  the  whole  hymn  to  the 
Amen.  Anne  sings  it  too,  about  her  kitchen,  holding  the 
notes  tightly  in  her  clenched  lips  as  though  they  were  hair- 
pins ;  and  Hester  enters  the  spirit  of  piety  with  such  abound- 
ing good  vigor  that  she  has  to  be  restrained. 

"  Noo  then !  Stop  making  light  o'  sacred  music.  Sing  it 
under  your  breath  or  not  at  all." 

And  the  Doctor,  who  hated  hymns  in  recent  years  as  the 
devil  does  holy  water,  hums  it  too;  and  likes  it  because  the 
time-worn  tune  contains  something  now  of  the  precious  new 
element  of  Jane;  and  that  is  the  tune  he  will  take  round 


I24  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

with  him  this  morning,  with  the  girl's  cool  voice  embedded 
in  it,  floating  in  it  like  a  particle  of  ice  in  devout  wine,  and 
tinkling  pleasantly  against  the  rim  of  memory  as  the  Doctor 
quaffs  it. 

He  steals  now  and  then  into  the  big  drawing-room  when 
Jane  and  Miss  Perritt  are  abroad  on  one  of  their  instructive 
walks,  and  inclines  a  kindling  eye  towards  the  varied  evi- 
dences of  labor.  Here  is  Jane's  exercise  book,  traced  over 
with  the  inky  industry  of  the  girl's  hand ;  half  laughable,  the 
seriousness  of  it,  and  yet  so  seriously  touching.  He  smiles 
to  think  of  the  willful  small  fingers  forming  these  conscien- 
tious characters,  line  after  line;  spinning  fluid  webs  for  her 
own  imprisonment,  as  it  were,  to  bind  the  willfulness  in  her 
captive,  and  be  O !  so  good. 

He  goes  out  into  the  garden  too,  and  sits  on  the  octagonal 
tree-seat,  beneath  the  canopy  of  Indian  oak,  when  the  sun 
pours  his  rays  out  of  a  blue  sky  upon  the  re-appearing  glories 
of  the  flower  beds,  and  smokes  his  pipe  beyond  the  open 
windows  of  the  schoolroom,  that  he  may  hear  the  willful 
ringers  submitting  themselves  to  discipline  on  the  keyboard. 
Dear  old  piano,  out  of  which  his  mother  could  evoke  strange 
untranslatable  memories  from  the  Doctor's  far-off  childhood ; 
memories  that  made  him  superbly  sad  at  times,  with  no 
reason  but  a  something  in  the  music.  What  a  gentle  hu- 
manizing influence  it  sheds  around,  he  thinks.  It  is,  at  best 
now,  but  a  frail  old  lady  with  a  weak  voice;  for  that  rea- 
son, perhaps,  a  fitting  associate  for  the  refractory  fingers  of 
childhood. 

He  listens  too  (for  love  was  born  a  listener)  outside  the 
schoolroom  door  to  the  commingling  of  voices,  and  plucks 
and  bears  away  some  trifling  blossoms  from  this  sequestered 
garden  of  knowledge.  "  Come,  Jane  dear.  Surely  you  re- 
member when  Edward  the  Fourth  died  ?  "  Or  "  Now  dear, 
and  what  are  the  chief  towns  in  Forfarshire  ? "  Questions 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  125 

that  make  the  Doctor  bitterly  regret  that  his  own  education 
is  so  shabby  and  imperfect,  and  cause  him  to  wonder  whether 
the  modern  trend  to  higher  knowledge  may  not  be  overdone. 
When  did  Edward  the  Fourth  die?  Which  are  Forfarshire's 
principal  towns?  When  the  schoolroom  is  empty  he  must 
refer  the  points. 

But  now  and  again,  through  the  loophole  of  her  embattle- 
mented  calm,  the  girl's  nature  cries  war,  and  her  lashes 
stiffen  themselves  to  rebellious  archery,  to  shoot  their  hot 
arrows  at  human  hearts.  Her  wrath,  kindled  it  seems  by 
some  mere  spark,  is  only  further  fanned  by  argument ;  the 
fire  must  burn  to  its  ashes,  and  its  residue  —  a  little  gray- 
faced  Jane  —  must  come  to  find  the  shelter  of  the  Doctor's 
bosom  for  the  discharging  of  her  willfulness  in  tears,  and  for 
rebaptism  at  his  hands  to  fresh  goodness  and  resolve.  And 
not  always  does  the  Doctor  draw  tranquillity  through  the  fra- 
grant channel  of  his  pipe  when  he  haunts  the  schoolroom 
windows.  On  a  fine  June  afternoon,  for  instance,  the  sound 
of  his  step  is  succeeded  by  the  sudden  pronouncement  of  his 
name :  eager,  urgent,  but  wrapped  in  the  sinister  garment  of 
a  whisper  that  makes  him  apprehensive  of  the  worst. 

"  Numphy,  Numphy !     Quick !     Before  she  comes  back." 

"  Jane !  "  He  breathes  rebuke  through  the  monosyllable, 
for  the  girl  is  breaking  one  of  their  cardinal  compacts,  in 
addressing  him  out  of  the  schoolroom  window  in  sanctified 
hours.  But  she  has  her  face  close  to  the  open  sash,  and 
there  is  a  look  of  personal  appeal  in  those  blue  eyes  that 
wakens  all  the  coward  in  him.  He  halts,  and  says  he  can- 
not, will  not  speak  with  her.  And  draws  nearer  to  the  win- 
dow. 

"  Go  back  at  once,  Jane.  Remember  your  promise.  You 
ought  never  to  have  looked  out  and  seen  me.  What  ?  " 

"  If  three  workmen  take  seventy-five  days  six  hours,"  she 
reads  breathlessly  from  her  sum-book,  with  her  mouth  against 


126  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

the  open  window,  "  to  build  a  wall  twenty  feet  long  and 
thirteen  high,  how  many  workmen  will  it  take  — " 

"  I  won't  listen  to  you,  Jane !  "  he  says.  And  adds  disap- 
pointedly :  "  How  can  you  ?  " 

"  I  can't,"  says  Jane,  "  though  I've  tried  three  times. 
Quick,  Numphy.  There's  a  dear,"  she  pants.  "  Before  the 
silly  old  thing  comes  back.  I  am  to  stay  in  till  I  work  it 
right,  and  she  has  taken  the  key-book  away  with  her.  Mean 
old  thing.  Now  I  can't  crib  the  answer.  And  there'll  be  no 
walk  with  you  before  tea.  Oh !  Numphy !  " 

All  at  once  he  stands  possessed  of  a  ragged  sum-book  and 
a  stub  of  bitten  pencil  —  though  he  knows  not  how,  since  he 
has  never  ceased  to  withstand,  or  to  rebuke.  And  at  that 
the  devil  gets  both  arms  around  him  (before  he  had  only 
one)  and  binds  him  to  destruction  root  and  branch.  Away 
with  all  thoughts  of  the  girl's  good,  and  the  discipline  of  her 
young  mind  for  the  soul's  pure  harvest.  Here,  on  the  very 
schoolroom  sill,  an  act  of  unmentionable  sacrilege,  he  com- 
pounds the  awful  crime.  Five  into  125 ;  3  into  8  won't  go. 
Cancel,  multiply  and  divide. 

"  Never  —  never  ask  such  a  thing  again,  Jane ! "  he  says, 
and  thrusts  the  awful  evidence  of  his  confederacy  through 
the  window  and  flees.  For  he  loathes  himself,  and  has  also 
heard  the  schoolroom  door  rattle. 

He  wanders  round  the  garden  with  the  disconsolate  flat- 
ness that  succeeds  all  acts  of  crime.  What  a  fall!  What  a 
revelation  of  self  to  self!  What  an  awful  example  to  the 
girl.  He  knows  now  —  as  he  had  suspected  miserably  all 
along  —  that  he  is  no  guardian  for  such  as  she.  These  mis- 
spent years,  like  nails  driven  into  a  door,  may  be  withdrawn 
by  resolution,  but  the  marks  remain.  His  influence  is  weak 
and  his  morals  bad ;  he  is  a  danger  to  the  girl  rather  than  a 
protection ;  an  incentive  to  the  worst  in  her  rather  than  an 
inducement  to  the  best.  Aye!  It  is  a  miserable  hour! 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  127 

But  it  does  not  end  at  that.  There  is  ever  a  coda  to  all 
ill  deeds,  and  when  he  has  propitiated  the  dog  of  remorse 
in  him  with  the  broken  biscuits  of  resolution,  and  gone 
indoors  with  a  firm  tread  across  the  hall  so  that  the  girl  may 
hear  the  altered  mood  in  him,  and  never,  never  dare  to  tres- 
pass on  his  despised  clemency  again,  he  is  met  by  Miss  Per- 
ritt,  who  holds  a  something  dreadful  in  her  uplifted  counte- 
nance, as  though  she  were  removing  the  tramp's  hat  out  of 
her  geranium  bed  with  the  rake,  and  tells  him,  "  I  would  like 
a  brief  word  with  you,  Dr.  Bentham,  please.  I  am  exceed- 
ingly sorry  to  trouble  you."  It  looks  a  grim  case,  at  sight, 
and  he  leads  it,  consequently,  into  the  surgery,  where,  among 
the  evidences  of  medical  profundity,  he  feels  to  have  a  little 
advantage  in  every  part  of  him  except  his  conscience. 

"  I  am  afraid  what  I  have  to  tell  .  .  .  will  rather  dis- 
tress you,"  she  begins.  He  is  afraid  so  too,  but  he  tries  hard 
to  secrete  the  admission. 

"  Not  at  all,  not  at  all,"  he  says  hurriedly.  "  A  doctor 
should  be  prepared  for  anything." 

She  purses  her  lips  to  prepare  him,  and  then  commences. 
She  has  set  Jane  a  sum.  (Ah!)  A  sum  which  Jane  should 
know  perfectly  well  how  to  do.  (Indeed!)  But  for  some 
reason  —  probably  the  hot  weather ;  she  is  aware,  of  course, 
that  learning  is  irksome  to  high-spirited  natures  like  Jane's 
—  for  some  reason  Jane  has  developed  a  fit  of  perversity. 

Jane,  continues  Miss  Perritt,  has  worked  the  sum  three 
times,  with  such  varying  results  that  they  can  only  be  attrib- 
uted to  the  grossest  neglect  or  carelessness.  But  after  a  brief 
absence  from  the  schoolroom,  Miss  Perritt  has  returned  to 
find  a  fourth  solution  —  worked  so  quickly  as  to  arouse  her 
strongest  surprise. 

"  The  answer,"  says  Miss  Perritt,  "  is,  fortunately,  incor- 
rect." (Ah!)  "But  on  inquiry  as  to  how  she  has  reached 
these  figures,  I  find  Jane  quite  incapable  of  any  explanation. 


128  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

Indeed,  she  has  openly  laughed  at  me.  Moreover,  the  sum  is 
worked  out  in  a  method  altogether  different  from  that  which 
I  have  taught  her.  Yet  she  vows  the  work  is  her  doing  — 
although  I  have  pointed  out  a  marked  difference  in  the  for- 
mation of  the  figures,  as  though  some  ignorant  hand  had 
helped  her.  I  have  even  suspected  the  gardener,  or  the 
groom.  The  whole  affair  is  most  suggestive  and  unpleasant, 
and  must,  for  the  girl's  sake,  be  looked  into." 

The  Doctor  gives  a  sickly  smile,  tries  to  belittle  Miss 
Perritt's  fears.  She  is,  he  thinks,  so  anxious  for  her  charge's 
welfare  that  she  is  inclined,  perhaps,  to  magnify  these  little 
difficulties. 

"  Magnify  them !  "  says  Miss  Perritt,  in  surprise.  "  I  must 
beg  you,  Doctor,  to  accompany  me  and  see  the  evidences  for 
yourself." 

He  says,  no,  no;  that  the  surgery  is  his  domain,  not  the 
schoolroom.  But  she  is  firm.  Without  adding  rudeness  to 
iniquity  he  cannot  escape  this  final  consequence  of  his  rash 
deed.  He  wipes  his  brow  and  says,  "  Allow  me  "  and  "  After 
you  "  in  an  attempt  to  sustain  his  foundering  conscience  on 
politeness,  and  enters  the  schoolroom  in  the  wake  of  Miss 
Perritt's  formal  skirts. 

"  Jane ! " 

That  dear  familiar  figure,  beloved  even  in  this  hour  of  dis- 
grace, rises  at  Miss  Perritt's  voice,  and  the  Doctor  puts  his 
hands  behind  his  back  and  drops  his  guilty  glance  when 
Jane's  eyes  meet  it,  as  though  her  sight  had  been  red  hot. 
It  is  a  terrible  moment. 

"  Yes,  Miss  Perritt." 

"  Allow  me  to  see  your  sum  book.  Thank  you.  Stand 
there,  please."  She  hands  the  book  to  the  Doctor,  and  points 
out  the  offending  sum  with  his  own  guilty  share  in  it.  "  Ob- 
serve the  difference  in  the  handwriting,"  she  bids  him. 
"  Compare  the  vulgar  loop  to  those  eights,  if  you  please,  Dr. 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  129 

Bentham.  Notice  the  slovenly  formation  of  the  fives.  You 
have  done  so?"  He  signifies  assent.  "Very  good.  Now 
will  you,  please,  compare  this  handwriting  with  the  figures 
overleaf  and  tell  me  whether  I  am  justified  in  my  .  ,  . 
I  will  not  say  suspicion  as  yet,  but  my  surmise  ?  " 

She  turns  the  page  for  him,  and  her  gaze  sits,  a  solid  fig- 
ure, on  his  eyes  in  silent  triumph  as  he  scrutinizes  the  girl's 
round  characters.  He  has  a  terrible  inspiration  to  plead 
guilty,  to  say  "  I  admit  the  crime,"  but  for  the  dread  knowl- 
edge of  the  partner  who  incited  him  to  it.  Instead,  he  turns 
the  pages  irresolutely  backward  and  forward  between  his 
fingers,  deliberating  the  two  characters  in  a  ghastly  mockery 
of  comparison.  If  only  he  could  be  quite  sure  —  quite  sure 
of  the  girl,  his  task  might  be  easier.  But  he  is  afraid  that, 
even  should  the  wicked  victory  be  won  for  her,  she  may  still, 
through  perversity,  betray  him. 

"  The  writings  certainly  appear  .  .  .  appear  rather 
dissimilar,"  he  admits.  "  As  though  they  had  been  written 
at  different  periods.  But  what  does  Jane  say  ?  " 

"  Jane  has  denied  it,"  says  Miss  Perritt. 

Jane  has  denied  it.     She  has  lied.     To  save  him ! 

At  this  he  has  a  sudden  restoration  of  rectitude.  The 
man  in  him  comes  bravely  uppermost.  He  faces  the  girl  with 
a  look  that  repudiates  subterfuge,  and  holds  forth  his  own 
written  iniquity  to  the  fires  of  exposure  as  Cranmer  pledged 
that  guilty  right  hand. 

"  Jane  .  .  .  Tell  Miss  Perritt  who  wrote  these  fig- 
ures." 

"  I  did." 

The  audacity  of  the  assertion  strikes  a  blink  from  him. 

"  If,"  he  continues  heroically  next  moment,  "  if  there  is 
anybody  whom  you  are  trying  to  screen,  through  a  mistaken 
sense  of  honor  .  .  .  anybody  who  has  thoughtlessly 
helped  you  with  this  sum — " 

9 


130  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

"  Nobody  has  helped  me,"  says  the  girl. 

"  Or  —  or  done  it  for  you,"  he  adds  desperately.  "  At  that 
window  this  afternoon.  When  I  was  in  the  garden.  Dur- 
ing Miss  Perritt's  absence  ...  I  beg,  Jane,  you  will 
speak  the  truth." 

She  denies  it  again,  with  her  eyelids  at  their  narrowest 
width  of  obstinacy,  and  he  sighs,  after  one  long  look  at  her, 
with  reassurance  and  regret.  He  can  do  no  more,  except  by 
denouncement  —  and  denouncement  could  not  save  those  lips 
from  falsehood  now :  it  could  only  brand  them  with  it.  He 
hands  back  the  accursed  page  and  quits  the  schoolroom  to 
seek  the  solitude  of  his  own  remorse  —  where  he  can  smoke 
the  pipe  of  bitterness  in  peace,  and  tax  his  heart  with  all  this 
awful  breakage  of  the  truth. 

And  in  his  solitude  the  girl  comes  to  him  later,  and  flings 
both  arms  about  his  neck  and  acclaims  him :  "  Numphy. 
You  are  a  dear  old  darling,"  as  though  his  wickedness  had 
been  noble  and  not  vile.  Yes.  And  he  tries  hard  to  retain 
his  sense  of  guilt  under  her  caress,  but  to  his  shame  he  can- 
not. It  slips  him  like  a  hooligan,  all  at  once,  without  leaving 
so  much  as  a  neck-tie  in  his  hands,  and  he  feels  that  that 
impulsive  caress  would  be  cheaply  bought  at  the  price  of  a 
hundred  falsehoods,  of  millions  and  millions  of  deceptive 
sums.  But  he  makes  his  voice  a  liar  to  his  heart  and  says, 
"  Oh,  Jane !  You  have  grieved  me  bitterly.  I  am  not 
friends  with  you  any  longer.  How  could  you !  "  She  laughs 
over  his  distress  as  though  it  were  but  a  clown  in  comic  diffi- 
culties. But  he  asks  incredulously,  "  Why  ? "  She  says, 
"  Because  it  served  her  right.  She's  a  silly  old  thing.  What 
does  it  matter  to  her  who  does  my  sums?  It's  no  business 
of  hers.  Besides,  the  answer  was  all  wrong."  He  says,  "  It 
is  my  only  consolation,  Jane.  Had  it  been  right,  my  con- 
science would  never  have  forgiven  me."  Thereafter  he  begs 
the  girl  to  confess  their  fault.  But  she  will  not.  She 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  131 

says  that  if  Miss  Perritt  had  believed  the  falsehood  she  could 
never  have  rested  without  telling  her  the  truth.  "  I  won't 
tell  her  at  all  now,"  she  decides.  "  At  least,  not  for  a  week. 
She  simply  wants  to  know  out  of  curiosity.  She's  punished 
me  and  kept  me  in  —  though  I  did  the  sum  myself  as  soon  as 
I  wanted.  And  I  won't  both  be  kept  in  and  tell  the  truth, 
not  for  anybody." 

So  like  Jane,  the  Doctor  tells  himself.  So  peculiarly  like 
Jane.  Try  and  trace  the  girl's  most  willful  acts  to  their 
ultimate  source,  and  you  find  the  motive  losing  itself  in  a 
hundred  tributaries  of  perversity.  Her  lies  are  not  the  chil- 
dren of  cowardice.  Her  truth  is  not  the  offspring  of  duty. 
Her  loyalty  is  not  always  love,  but  sometimes  (how  dread- 
ful to  contemplate)  a  sort  of  perverted  animosity;  a  strange 
questionable  element  that  defies  all  analysis. 

But  whatever  it  is,  at  its  root  and  base  it  is  always  Jane. 
The  sap  that  rises  in  this  young  tree  may  draw  its  sustenance 
from  strange  sources,  but  always  the  leaves  are  green  and 
shelterful  to  look  at;  and  always  there  is  a  kind  of  wild 
music  in  its  branches  that  talks  to  this  man's  heart  at  least, 
as  when  one  stands  beneath  the  boughs  of  a  mighty  elm  and 
hears  a  soughing  up  above  —  like  a  far-off  organ  —  that  tells 
of  storm  elsewhere,  and  of  the  past,  and  yet  falls  on  the 
spirit  like  some  sigh  of  peace :  a  whisper  of  hope  and  cour- 
age :  a  benediction  from  those  uplifted  leaves  as  from  a  bish- 
op's outspread  hands. 


XVII 

ONE  dark  period  can  scarcely  be  omitted  from  any 
history  that  professes  to  chronicle  Jane.  She  sickens 
with  scarlet  fever  in  the  spring  of  her  fifteenth  year,  and 
for  a  while,  indeed,  the  Angel  of  Death  casts  his  shadow 
over  the  Doctor's  house.  The  Doctor  goes  abroad  with  his 
very  life  tucked  up  in  his  lips,  and  people  of  discernment 
refrain  from  asking  questions  of  him  in  those  days.  The 
groom  fastens  a  bulletin  each  morning  on  the  big  gate,  and 
the  Doctor  does  not  read  again  what  his  hand  has  written. 
She  sinks ;  she  rallies ;  she  rides,  as  it  were,  on  the  waters 
of  death,  like  a  boat  that  needs  but  half-an-inch  more  flood 
to  float  her,  but  one  incautious  breath  to  waft  her  forth 
upon  the  tide.  One  Sunday  morning  the  vicar  asked  for  the 
prayers  of  the  church  on  her  behalf,  and  breaks  down 
partially  in  doing  so.  "  I  was  quite  overcome  for  the  mo- 
ment," he  tells  the  Doctor  subsequently.  "  It  put  me  in 
mind  of  my  own  dear  nieces,  and  I  thought  what  a  terrible 
thing  it  would  be  for  their  poor  mothers  —  and  indeed  for  us 
all  —  if  anything  should  happen  to  them.  Fortunately,  I  am 
thankful  to  say,  my  present  news  is  of  the  very  best.  Clare, 
her  mother  tells  me,  has  scarcely  a  trace  of  the  cough  which 
so  troubled  her  in  her  recitations." 

We  will  pass  over  the  feelings  of  the  sexton  during  this 
harrowing  time,  for  after  all,  he  is  of  our  own  clay.  He 
bowed  his  head  to  the  common  prayer,  and  his  lips  moved ; 
but  when  he  asked,  after  that,  for  news  of  her  condition,  it 
is  said  his  hand  trembled.  It  was  just  a  year  since  he  had 
dug  a  six  by  three  for  old  Aaron  Stebbing,  and  hope  eternal 

132 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  133 

springs  in  the  human  breast.  We  may  conclude,  however, 
that  the  prayer  of  the  vicar  and  the  schoolmaster,  and  the 
old  blacksmith  in  the  side  aisle  —  who  gets  four  and  sixpence 
every  quarter  day  for  rubbing  the  dust  off  the  pew-back  each 
Sunday  in  slumber  with  his  brown  velvet  jacket  —  and  the 
sexton,  and  Mrs.  Medling,  and  four  choir-boys,  and  some 
farm  lads,  and  one  or  two  lasses  whom  not  even  the  solemnity 
of  the  occasion  could  restrain  from  sucking  peppermint  rock 
during  the  Litany  ...  we  may  conclude  that  the  pray- 
ers of  these  availed,  for  the  girl  grew  slowly  better,  and  the 
sexton  told  his  wife: 

"  It's  a  caution  when  ye  think  on  it  —  praying  again  a 
man's  trade.  Not  that  I'd  wish  lass  any  harm.  But  vicar 
dizn't  pray  against  his  tithes  when  time  comes  round.  No, 
and  he  didn't  want  to  pray  for  old  Aaron  when  he  was  at 
back  end.  '  Why,'  he  telt  Mrs.  Paston  when  she  hinted 
at  it.  '  He's  growing  an  aud  man  noo,  and  it  dizn't  stand 
to  sense  he  can  bide  much  longer.  I  think  we'd  best  let  him 
gan  without  making  ower  much  fuss,  or  seeming  to  doubt 
Providence,  Mrs.  Paston.  The  ways  o'  Providence  are  in- 
scrutable, and  as  good  as  any.'  Aye,  and  it  wasn't  while  he 
knew  Aaron  had  named  a  wish  he  would  like  to  be  prayed 
for  before  deeing  —  just  for  sake  of  the  thing,  so  as  he 
could  be  as  good  as  aud  Mrs.  Smithers,  and  they  could  tell 
him  what  was  said,  and  how  folks  took  it  —  that  he  gied  in. 
'  But  tell  him  he  mun't  count  on  it/  vicar  bids  her. 
'  There's  no  biding  a  minute  longer  when  time's  up  —  and 
I'se  jealous  his  is.  My  poor  nevvy  had  ti  gan  —  as  promis- 
ing a  young  fellow  as  ever  went  ti  college  .  .  .  and  him 
but  twenty-three.' " 

Gradually  the  smile  comes  home  to  its  seat  on  the  Doctor's 
lips,  and  the  girl  draws  back  to  this  life  of  joys  and  sorrows. 
She  is  so  weak  that  it  makes  them  shed  tears  through  their 
joy  to  lift  her,  and  to  see  in  what  a  frail  tenement  that  once 


134  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

willful  spirit  is  lodged.  And  it  seems  that  the  fever  has 
consumed  much  of  the  perverse  part  of  her,  leaving  only  a 
high  courage,  and  a  wonderful  fortitude,  out  of  which  there 
rises  a  small  spiritualized  voice  that  seems  to  need  no  help 
of  lips,  but  rises  faintly  like  a  mere  fragrance  of  speech;  a 
thought,  rather  than  a  sound.  And  the  Doctor,  who  has 
rolled  all  the  functions  of  father  and  mother  and  brother  and 
doctor  and  day-nurse  and  night-nurse  into  one,  seems  to 
have  passed  through  the  girl's  own  suffering  with  a  physical 
as  well  as  a  mental  intensity.  He  rallies  as  she  rallies,  and 
at  times,  clasping  this  small  residue  in  his  arms,  that  has 
been  vouchsafed  fined  and  purified  from  the  crucible  of 
suffering,  he  cannot  speak  for  the  mother's  weakness  at  his 
throat,  till  the  girl  marks  his  silence  and  the  pressure  of  the 
arms  that  would  hurt  her  but  for  the  wonderful  protection 
they  seem  to  afford  —  as  though  never,  never,  never  would 
they  suffer  this  dear  life  to  escape  them,  and  sees  the  tears 
that  hide  her  utterly  from  his  sight,  and  smiles  and  comforts 
him  — 

"  Don't  cry,  Numphy.  I  shall  soon  be  strong  and  well 
again  now,  and  we  will  go  to  Spraith  some  day.  How  good 
you  are  to  me." 

She  is  sent  away  with  Miss  Perritt  for  a  whole  month  to 
Spathorpe,  to  recuperate;  and  before  she  goes  the  Doctor 
gives  her,  as  a  thank-offering  and  sacred  trust,  the  gold 
watch  that  beat  up  against  his  mother's  bosom  to  the  day  of 
her  death.  He  had  dedicated  it  to  the  girl  in  his  heart 
since  the  hour  of  his  conversion;  and  all  during  her  illness 
he  had  kept  it  going  on  the  little  table  by  her  bed  —  with  a 
desperate  superstitious  hope  that  her  life  might  be  spiritu- 
ally influenced  by  its  vital  beat,  and  that  some  guardian 
quality  derived  from  his  dead  mother  would  stream  out 
towards  the  girl  along  that  minute  current  of  ticked  seconds. 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  135 

and  sustain  her  through  the  worst.  Perhaps  this  had  some 
influence  on  her  recovery,  along  with  the  prayer. 

From  Spathorpe  she  returns  a  stronger  and  a  taller  Jane. 
She  has  grown  much  during  her  illness  and  after.  All  her 
frocks  have  had  to  be  lengthened,  and  new  ones  ordered  to 
meet  the  altered  conditions.  The  pinched  look  about  her 
features  is  partly  the  work  of  the  fever ;  partly  a  concomitant 
of  sudden  growth.  Her  face  lengthens  into  a  more  perfect 
oval ;  the  roundness  of  the  self-willed  child  merges  into  a 
more  mature  composure  of  countenance.  Through  those 
blue  eyes  one  sees  womanhood  at  nearer  hand,  and  the 
Doctor  hears  Hilda  Brennan  all  day  long  in  stray  inflections 
of  the  deeper  voice  and  Miss  Perritt  tells  him  in  moments 
of  confidence  that  Jane's  character  has  improved  wonderfully 
since  her  illness. 

"  She  was  always  a  dear  child  before,"  she  says. 
"  Though  I  have  since  thought  that  some  of  her  little  dis- 
plays of  willfulness  were  really  due  to  growing  trouble.  But 
now  her  disposition  is  singularly  sweet  and  amiable  —  and 
there  is  something  truly  Christian  about  her  kisses." 

So  the  new  Jane  resumes  her  interrupted  life  in  the  old 
Sunfleet,  and  draws  back  warmth  and  color  for  her  faded 
cheeks  from  the  copious  currents  of  strong  sea-braced  air 
that  sweeps  harp  tunes  out  of  all  this  country.  And  so  they 
go  to  Spraith,  and  see  the  Doctor's  window  through  the 
tube  of  six  extensions,  and  the  rooks  above  the  chimneys 
and  the  gray  crenelated  church-tower  with  the  bleak  flag- 
staff on  it,  like  a  thorn  in  a  finger. 

The  little  gray  weathered  church,  with  grass  growing  out 
of  the  crevices  of  its  stones,  and  yellow  lichen  velveting  its 
walls,  is  a  favorite  walk  of  theirs,  for  it  leads  them  to  the 
Sunfleet  banks  of  the  Hun,  through  a  long  straggling  lane, 
furrowed  with  hard-baked  ruts  in  summer  that  stand  up 


136  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

sheer  like  railway  lines,  shaded  with  untrimmed  hedges  of 
hawthorn  and  elder,  and  wild  cherry  and  rampant  briar ;  and 
across  dyke-intersected  fields  where  the  scented  sea-lavender 
grows,  and  the  pink  thrift,  and  many  other  of  the  salt  marsh 
herbs  so  dear  to  the  fingers  that  have  ever  culled  them  in 
youth. 

The  church,  unlike  so  many  that  gather  the  red  farmsteads 
under  their  spreading  wings,  after  the  manner  of  a  hen 
mothering  her  chicks,  stands  aside  from  Sunfleet  to  the 
south:  within  sight  of  the  estuary  of  the  Hun;  a  bleak 
example  of  the  Perpendicular,  badly  repaired,  with  aisles 
and  clerestory  windows  that  emit  a  marine  pallor  viewed 
from  the  outside  when  the  light  pierces  them,  as  though  the 
church  were  filled  with  sea-water,  and  dead  mariners  and 
anemones  were  floating  peacefully  in  its  interior.  The 
breezes  from  the  Hun  stir  the  long  green  grass  in  its  little 
godsacre,  so  that  lights  and  shadows,  like  living  things,  dart 
to  and  fro  among  the  tombs  of  stone  and  white  marble,  and 
mostly  you  will  hear  a  shrill  subdued  whistling  all  around 
you  from  grass  stalks  that  quiver  in  the  wind. 

Here  the  girl  walks  on  Sundays  with  a  wonderful  piety  of 
lip,  and  perhaps,  too,  a  slightly  mundane  tilt  about  the  nose 
that  betokens  a  new  frock  or  pretty  new  shoes.  Sometimes 
Miss  Perritt  accompanies  her  (on  such  occasions  as  she  is 
spending  the  Sunday  at  Sunfleet,  which  grow  more  numerous 
with  time)  and  sometimes  the  Doctor. 

In  front  of  the  two  grained  family  holdings,  all  the  seating 
of  the  church  has  been  re-modeled,  and  the  high-paneled 
boxes  are  replaced  by  open  pews  of  pitch-pine,  where  one 
can  no  longer  play  cards  during  the  sermon,  which  is  a  pity. 
But  no  restoration  has  been  affected  in  the  characteristic  red 
tiling  that  lends  a  quaint  and  kitchen  homeliness  to  the 
sacred  floor,  nor  to  the  old  fire-grate  built  into  the  corner  of 
the  north  aisle  for  purposes  of  heating.  And,  like  a  great 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  137 

pig-stretcher  in  front  of  this,  still  stands  the  primitive 
bier  that  used  to  bring  the  bodies  of  the  drowned  from 
Beachington  or  bank  of  Hun. 

In  the  spacious  green-lined  pew  the  girl  sits  on  Sunday, 
and  the  dim  influences  of  this  immemorial  place  fall  over 
her  with  the  softness  of  the  sunlight  through  the  diamond- 
leaded  windows,  and  sink  hues  into  the  soft  fabric  of  her 
fancy  that  but  eternity  can  quite  eradicate.  Even  in 
articulo  mortis  there  will  be  some  faint  tints  of  all  this  in 
her  dissolving  memory,  ebbing  through  the  narrow  point  of 
consciousness  like  the  sands  of  time :  —  the  stone  pillars, 
splashed  up  to  their  capitals  with  curious  sulphur-drips  of 
weathering  —  the  work  of  the  busy  protococcus  —  as  though 
a  careless  painter  had  chosen  this  way  of  drying  his  brush; 
the  sunlight  streaming  over  the  tiled  floor,  or  leaning  vivid 
beams  of  gold  against  the  windows,  like  ladders,  for  the 
notes  to  circulate  in ;  ascending  and  descending  with  the 
eternal  activity  of  rejoicing  seraphim ;  and  the  vicar  with 
his  long  sermons  bearing  witness  to  lucubrations  of  thirty 
years  ago  —  written  on  foolscap  yellow  with  seclusion,  that 
the  vicar  reads  up  to  the  last  word,  as  a  dog  licks  a  plate. 
In  the  pulpit  he  rustles  as  dry  of  humanity  as  a  straw  sheaf 
from  last  year's  threshing,  and  offers  his  listeners  the  most 
undelectable  fare  of  superannuated  theology,  but,  once  de- 
scended, the  vicar  reassumes  his  human  character.  The 
smile  revisits  his  lips,  and  he  tells  Medling  with  unaffected 
sincerity  — 

"  I  couldn't  help  thinking  about  you  last  night,  Mr. 
Medling,  when  we  had  that  terribly  heavy  shower.  Very 
disappointing;  very  disappointing.  Just  when  you're  ready 
to  begin  leading,  and  all  was  so  nice  and  dry.  I  know  by 
my  garden  how  you'll  have  suffered.  I  assure  you,  those 
beautiful  stocks 


XVIII 

ON  two  occasions  the  vicar's  nephew  Berkeley  comes  to 
visit  him  and  occupy  the  pulpit,  and  these  are  great 
occasions,  when  the  Doctor  must  on  no  account  be  absent 
from  the  big  grained  pew.  The  first  time  he  must  cer- 
tainly not  be  absent  because  this  is  the  nephew  that  the 
vicar  had  so  particularly  mentioned  to  him,  the  second  son 
of  his  sister  Harriet  (who  married  the  only  son  of  Canon 
Snuffley's  cousin),  and  is  now  a  curate  at  St.  Cyprian's, 
Growingham,  where  his  preaching  is  preferred  by  many  to 
the  vicar's. 

On  the  second  occasion  his  visit  is  more  prolonged.  He 
preaches  on  two  Sundays,  and  just  misses  a  third  —  much  to 
his  uncle's  regret  —  so  that  the  doctor  and  Jane  come  to  see 
something  of  him.  To  speak  the  truth,  his  qualities  seem  to 
lose  their  luster  at  close  quarters;  he  has  too  much  an  air, 
the  Doctor  thinks,  of  keeping  his  glory  cupboarded  under 
lock  and  key,  as  though  he  is  afraid  it  may  depreciate  by 
handling.  The  outlines  of  the  face  are  rather  hard,  he 
fancies,  and  there  is  something  mean  about  the  small  reg- 
ular features  and  the  corner  folds  of  the  thin  lips,  but  they 
are  clerical  and,  in  a  lesser  degree,  scholarly.  He  must 
be  nearly  ten  years  younger  than  the  Doctor  (the  Doc- 
tor decides  with  quiet  envy),  but  his  hair  is  very  thin,  par- 
ticularly at  the  back  of  his  head  and  on  the  temples,  and 
there  is  a  lack  of  nature  about  his  complexion  which,  aided 
by  a  cold  wind,  would  cause  him  to  look  older  than  his  years. 
He  has  not  the  Doctor's  clear  fresh  skin,  or  the  Doctor's 
warm  eye  or  hand,  though  he  has  a  voice  that  would  sound 

138 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  139 

well  in  a  hollow  building,  and  carve  a  good  record  on  a 
gramophone.  Even  as  it  is,  it  has  a  portentous  boom  when 
it  utters  parochial  Yesses  and  Noes,  with  imposing  capital 
M's  in  front  of  them,  like  the  buffers  on  a  steam  engine ; 
and  it  rebounds  off  the  walls  and  columns  of  the  Sunfleet 
church  whenever  he  throws  it  out  (particularly  in  announc- 
ing hymns)  as  if  he  were  playing  fivers  with  it.  As  for  his 
sermons,  the  Doctor  thinks  perhaps  that  the  text  is  as  good 
a  part  of  them  as  any  —  though  the  vicar  seems  to  prefer  the 
peroration.  They  deal  with  problems  as  irrelevant  to  Sun- 
fleet  as  a  tail-coat  by  the  waters  of  the  Hun,  and  the  preacher 
suffers  from  all  his  uncle's  dryness  in  the  pulpit,  without 
the  gray  hairs  or  side  whiskers  to  lend  it  venerableness  of 
age.  Love,  sacrifice,  hope  and  charity  fall  from  his  lips  with 
the  frigid  fixity  of  mathematical  signs ;  unalterable  things, 
like  snow  crystals,  that  lose  all  their  form  and  significance 
when  they  are  thawed  by  the  human  heart,  and  must  be  kept 
perpetually  frozen  to  retain  their  structure.  The  Doctor, 
looking  at  him  and  listening  to  him,  reflects  what  an  insuffer- 
able place  heaven  must  be  with  many  angels  of  this  pattern, 
and  asks  himself  to  what  fractional  degree  can  these  theolog- 
ical exhortations  influence  the  human  heart,  which  will  not 
listen  to  any  voice  except  its  own.  Virtue,  from  this 
source,  becomes  merely  mean  respectability,  a  vehicle  for 
self-advancement  in  this  world  and  the  next,  and  in  his  bosom 
he  leans  for  a  moment  with  indulgence  towards  the  patent 
infirmities  of  the  unregenerate  Pridgeon,  infirmities  which, 
purged  of  some  of  their  grosser  parts,  have  the  making  of 
true  human  qualities.  It  is  merely,  he  reflects,  a  matter  of 
degree.  Even  respectability  can  become  mean  and  odious, 
and  the  Rev.  Berkeley  Hislop  hits  one's  morals  as  unpleas- 
antly above  the  belt  as  the  farmer  strikes  below  it. 

On   this    second   visit   the    Rev.    Berkeley    Hislop   comes 
accompanied  by  a  younger  sister,  who  is  to  stay  with  the 


140  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

vicar  for  some  weeks  after  her  brother's  departure.  She  is 
a  girl  of  about  Jane's  age,  with  a  transparent  colorless  com- 
plexion, and  a  face  that,  like  a  garment  in  the  wash,  seems 
to  depend  all  on  the  subsequent  dressing  as  to  how  it  shall 
ultimately  look.  Starched  and  ironed  in  the  ecclesiastical 
mode,  it  could  be  turned  out  doubtless  as  passionless  a  pro- 
duction as  ever  played  croquet  on  the  vicarage  lawn  or  gave 
a  chill  to  parishioners.  But  wooed  by  warmer  circumstances 
it  might,  the  Doctor  thought,  ultimately  develop  into  a  face 
of  real  attractiveness.  She  is  scrupulously  polite,  and 
aspirates  her  h's  with  such  punctilious  care  in  the  lowest  of 
voices,  that  they  convey  an  effect  of  sighing,  as  though,  per- 
haps, her  heart  were  a  trifle  weak.  Most  of  her  early  con- 
versation is  done  through  the  medium  of  blushes  of  varying 
intensity.  "  Good-day "  tints  her  pink  as  far  as  the  ears. 
For  "  I  beg  your  pardon  "  she  blushes  twice,  in  carmine,  the 
second  blush  overlapping  the  first,  and  crossing  both  temples 
to  the  roots  of  her  hair.  She  and  Jane  content  themselves 
with  looking  at  each  other  first  of  all,  like  two  strange  foals 
in  a  paddock ;  but  youth  is  a  universal  language,  and  before 
long  they  are  friends,  locking  themselves  up  in  the  confiden- 
tial parlor  of  whispers,  and  kissing  each  other  on  parting; 
real  feminine  kisses  on  Jane's  side,  that  are  armored  watch- 
towers,  from  which  she  notes  all  the  details  of  the  girl's  hat, 
or  the  color  of  her  eyes,  or  the  way  she  does  her  hair. 

This  niece,  whose  name  is  Bertha  ("A  most  remarkable 
girl,  Dr.  Bentham.  Nobody  would  think  from  her  quiet  ap- 
pearance what  a  clever  French  scholar  she  is.  With  the 
merest  assistance  from  her  governess  at  the  High  School, 
she  translated  nearly  the  whole  of  the  first  act  of  a  little 
French  play  last  term  ") — this  niece  of  the  name  of  Bertha 
constitutes  another  thread  for  the  close  pleating  of  relations, 
and  in  these  days  the  Doctor  and  Jane  go  more  than  occa- 
sionally to  the  square,  whitewashed  vicarage,  sunk  up  to  its 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  141 

chimneys  in  thick  shrubbery  behind  high  color-washed 
walls,  fifty  paces  down  the  little  side  road  opposite  the 
church  tower.  It  is  very  secluded  and  externally  undemon- 
strative, with  nothing  much  to  lay  hold  of,  like  one  of  the 
vicar's  sermons.  Round  the  south  front  of  the  house  they 
will  probably  come  upon  the  figure  of  the  Vicar,  under  a 
coarse  straw  gardening  hat,  with  a  trowel  in  one  hand  and 
the  out-stretched  fingers  of  the  other  caked  up  to  the  third 
knuckles  with  garden  soil,  so  that  he  has  to  wipe  the  perspi- 
ration from  his  forehead  with  the  back  of  his  hand :  thus,  by 
the  confraternity  of  labor,  made  kin  to  old  Stebbing.  He 
will  be  most  likely,  at  the  moment  of  their  finding  him,  in  an 
attitude  of  awakened  expectancy,  between  kneeling  down 
and  standing  up,  with  his  head  thrust  over  one  shoulder 
towards  the  visitors'  path  as  though  he  were  looking  over 
some  one  else's  back,  an  attitude  which  he  has  maintained 
ever  since  he  felt  almost  sure  he  heard  the  bell.  It  changes 
at  once,  at  sight  of  Jane  and  the  Doctor,  into  the  upright 
posture  for  a  surmise  gladly  confirmed,  and  the  look  of  con- 
centration which  seems  to  darken  his  face  melts  into  the 
youthful  smile  of  recognition,  while  he  calls  in  the  voice  of 
best  assurance  towards  one  or  other  of  the  French  windows : 

"  Berkeley !  Bertha !  Come  along  with  you  and  see  some 
friends." 

This  lawn  of  green  solace  has  its  anxieties  for  the  vicar, 
as  Jane  of  the  perversities  has  for  the  Doctor.  At  times, 
even  in  the  Doctor's  presence,  he  has  looked  at  it  with  a 
strange  parental  smile  and  a  wetness  of  eye,  saying  — 

"  I  sometimes  wonder,  Dr.  Bentham,  what  will  happen  to 
it  when  I  am  gone.  The  thought  makes  me  rather  sad  at 
times.  I've  been  inclined  to  regret  now  and  again  that  I 
ever  gave  the  place  so  much  care.  I'm  afraid,  like  some  of 
my  dear  nephews  and  nieces,  it  has  been  spoiled,  and  will 
fare  badly  in  other  hands.  Still,  a  man  must  do  his  duty  to 


142  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

his  fellow-men.  I  hope  my  successor  will  be  a  conscientious 
fellow  without  any  family." 

Even  the  beautiful  page  of  the  garden,  however,  is  found 
to  bear  allusion  to  the  other  subject  dear  to  his  heart. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  will  laugh  at  my  bit  of  a  lawn,  Berke- 
ley," he  says  to  his  nephew,  with  a  gleam  of  gold-filled 
teeth,  "  after  all  the  beautiful  places  you  are  in  the  habit  of 
visiting.  Let's  see.  How  many  acres  did  you  say  that 
lovely  garden  was  at  Sir  Andrew  Frinton's,  where  you  so 
frequently  take  tea  on  the  terrace  ?  " 

The  nephew  says,  "  A  little  over  six,  uncle,"  with  a  look 
of  clerical  apathy,  as  though  the  number  yielded  him  no 
gratification. 

"  Six !     They  must  keep  several  gardeners,  then  ?  " 

The  nephew  says  again,  without  joy,  "Close  on  a  dozen, 
I  believe." 

"  A  dozen ! "  repeats  the  vicar,  in  a  voice  that  interprets 
appropriate  gratification  to  the  Doctor.  "  Well,  well,"  he 
adds  indulgently,  "they  can  afford  it,  Berkeley.  (Extraor- 
dinarily wealthy  people,"  he  imparts  to  the  Doctor.  "  Sir 
Andrews  is  reported  to  be  worth  .  .  ."  (Here  he  leaves 
the  side- voice  and  returns  to  the  main  walk  again.)  "  How 
many  hundred  thousands,  Berkeley?  .  .  .  Half  a  mil- 
lion !  I  wonder  you  can  bear  to  tear  yourself  away  from  all 
those  lovely  places  where  you  are  made  so  thoroughly  at 
home,  and  care  to  come  and  see  an  old  curmudgeon  of  an 
uncle  with  a  handful  of  garden  and  the  plainest  cooking. 
(My  nephew  is  a  particular  favorite  of  the  Frinton  family, 
Dr.  Bentham.  Indeed,  he  is  wherever  he  goes.  They  all 
treat  him  more  like  a  friend  than  a  curate.)" 

The  nephew  himself  has  very  little  to  say;  his  vaunted 
greatness,  like  an  overchoked  culvert,  trickles  for  the  most 
pan  in  brief  sentences  of  commonplace,  which  (the  Doctor 
thinks)  he  rather  serves  out  with  the  conscious  superiority 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  143 

of  one  reserving  his  better  things  for  parishioners  of  impor- 
tance. He  tolerates  his  uncle's  questions  with  a  bearing  of 
pious  magnanimity,  qualifying  small  inaccuracies  as  though 
their  truth,  and  not  their  grandeur,  were  the  object  of 
his  connection.  When  his  uncle  asks  him,  for  instance, 
"  Let's  see,  Berkeley.  How  many  titled  people  were  there, 
in  addition  to  the  Bishop,  at  the  big  missionary  meeting  in 
Lady  Smythe's  drawing-room,  when  Major  Rentham,  if  you 
remember,  complimented  you  so  highly  on  your  delivery? 
Seven  ?  "  he  corrects  the  figure  to  "  Nine,  uncle,"  with  a 
humility  as  if  he  had  reduced  the  number  rather  than  aug- 
mented it. 

"Nine?  ...  A  trying  ordeal,  Dr.  Bentham,  with  the 
superb  palm-house  facing  you  through  the  vestibule  beyond 
those  folding-doors,  and  the  Bishop  and  Lady  Smythe  in 
arm-chairs  by  your  elbow." 

The  Doctor  and  Jane  come  here  to  lunch  one  day ;  a  typical 
vicarage  lunch  in  the  cheerful  dining-room,  with  the  green 
of  the  sun-lit  lawn  reflected  on  to  the  ceiling,  and  the 
curtains  by  the  open  French  window  drawing  breath  every 
now  and  then,  and  sighing  softly  with  contentment.  The 
vicar  is  astonished  when  the  Doctor  declines  both  claret  and 
sherry  with  the  remark  that  for  a  long  time  now  he  has 
taken  nothing  at  all. 

"  Ah  yes,  I  know  about  that,"  he  says.  "  But  I  should 
have  thought  a  little  quiet  claret  here  would  not  hurt  you." 

To  his  nephew  he  says,  "  I  don't  know  whether  I  dare 
recommend  my  wine  to  you,  Berkeley.  I'm  afraid  you  will 
begin  to  miss  all  your  good  friends  now.  But  let  me  pour 
you  out  a  glass  of  claret.  You  needn't  drink  more  than 
you  like." 

The  vicar  and  the  vicar's  nephew,  and  the  vicar's  niece, 
come  all  of  them  to  late  dinner  at  the  Doctor's  house,  where 


144  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

the  three  men  and  Miss  Perritt  play  rubbers  by  lamplight, 
and  the  girls  make  friendly  competitive  music  in  the  school- 
room, or  walk  up  and  down  the  broad  gravel  path  in  the 
garden,  stopping  every  now  and  then  to  watch  the  progress 
of  the  game  in  the  four  lamp-lit  countenances,  and  squeeze 
understandings  into  each  other's  waists,  and  resume  their 
promenade  with  subdued  laughter  beneath  the  starry  sky, 
disturbing  a  hundred  strata  of  warm  fragrances  that  float 
motionless  in  the  still  night-air  above  the  sleeping  blossoms. 


XIX 

TWO  years,  that  look  a  mass  of  time  so  chill  and  solid 
as  one  faces  them,  melt  swiftly  away  like  ice  on  a 
blanket.  Miss  Perritt  goes  back  once  more  to  her  little 
fiat-chested  house  at  Peterwick,  where  now  her  white  hand 
will  be  a  regular  feature  of  the  window,  depending  the 
water-pot  over  the  window  flowers;  a  debtor  to  Time  for 
three  bright  years  of  her  life  —  that  she  will  henceforth  rail 
round  with  an  iron  fortitude,  like  the  wrought-work  defend- 
ing the  tomb  of  the  great  Dr.  Dendy,  and  weep  over,  now 
and  then,  in  her  solitary  hours. 

And  there  are  changes  for  the  girl  and  for  the  Doctor,  too. 
During  three  whole  terms  —  in  which  the  Doctor  flogs  up  the 
days  to  a  feverish  gallop  of  activity,  like  some  lonely  rider 
spurring  his  steed  across  the  desert  —  the  girl  is  away  at  a 
finishing  school  in  Richmond-on-Thames,  completing  herself 
in  the  accomplishments  and  virtues.  These  terms  make  her 
much  taller,  and  lend  the  necessary  discipline  to  her  grace. 
She  is  now  appreciably  taller  than  the  Doctor  —  which, 
translated  into  the  feminine  scale  of  skirts  and  picture  hats, 
stoles  and  ostrich  plumes,  constitute  a  girl  of  more  than 
medium  stature.  With  her  quick  eye  for  the  picking  up  of 
the  pins  of  detail,  and  for  threading  the  fine  needles  of  the 
suitabilities,  she  has  little  to  learn  on  the  side  of  the  personal 
advantages.  That  is  to  say,  she  has  superseded  the  impul- 
sive childish  instinct  for  grace  of  movement  and  line  of  body, 
and  replaced  it  with  a  subtler,  surer  thing,  suiting  better 
with  these  longer  skirts.  Her  vanity  is  not  merely  a  con- 
scious parade  of  it,  that  is  the  pitfall  of  women  who  do 
10  145 


146  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

not  use  adornment  as  a  gracious  extension  of  self,  but  rather 
for  self's  suppression.  All  that  Jane  wears,  or  all  that  she 
uses,  seems  to  have  a  conscious  affinity  with  the  girl's 
nature ;  lending  its  extra  note  of  preciousness  to  the  body 
beautiful,  like  some  felicitous  annotation  to  a  poem.  The 
little  battery  of  bangles  that  hang  at  her  wrist  and  slide 
down  over  her  hand  with  a  clash  of  cymbals  when  she  lifts 
the  teapot;  the  little  chatelaine  at  her  skirts,  that  sounds 
her  presence  so  sweetly  when  she  comes.  The  little  fancy 
watch  at  her  bosom,  that  gives  her  such  occasion  to  bend  her 
neck  and  lower  those  broad  ribbons  of  dark  lash  momentarily 
upon  her  cheek  when  she  seeks  to  discern  the  time  from  its 
tiny  dial.  Somehow  —  or  is  it,  can  it  be  fancy?  —  these 
trinkets  that  other  girls  carry,  seem  personal  and  proper  in 
the  Doctor's  opinion,  only  to  Jane.  She  is  seventeen  now, 
and  very  like  her  mother.  The  early  prophecy  of  beauty  has 
been  fulfilled.  The  tints  that  lie  so  equably  beneath  the 
transparent  tissue  of  clear  skin  are  as  delicate  as  those  paler 
hues  of  old  Lowestoft  china,  and  as  delightful  to  the  contem- 
plation. Her  hair,  that  has  all  the  abundance  of  her  dead 
mother's,  and  that  her  cunning  fingers  weave  into  a  hundred 
fascinating  intricacies,  is  darker,  possibly,  than  in  those  early 
days  when  she  shook  its  loose  tresses  in  rebellion.  Her  eyes, 
of  soft  Nankin  blue,  shaded  by  long  lashes  whose  dark  re- 
flection lends  them  a  color  so  deep  that  it  sometimes  broaches 
violet,  have  shed  much,  though  not  all,  of  their  willful  fire. 
Instead,  there  is  a  kind  of  laughter  lurking  in  them,  like  the 
pulse  that  quivers  in  the  deep  sky  of  a  July  noon;  though 
the  merest  depression  of  those  white  lids  can  make  them 
infinitely  sad.  When  she  speaks,  these  eyes  play  an  expres- 
sive obbligato  to  her  words,  so  that  it  is  an  endless  pastime 
to  the  Doctor  to  watch  them  ripple,  and  see  the  wondrous 
leaping  glances  in  them,  like  trout  in  a  pool.  They  are 
alive  with  animated  thoughts;  thoughts  that  move,  dimly 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  147 

discerned  in  their  depths,  or  ply  like  lightning  below  the 
surface,  or  leap  into  swift  expression  with  dripping  spangles 
of  laughter.  And  then  her  youth  seems  like  a  magic  chalice, 
rilled  with  the  inexhaustible  waters  of  life;  refreshing  all 
who  put  their  lips  to  it  and  drink.  It  is  the  Doctor's  daily 
draught;  rejuvenating  him,  encouraging  him,  sustaining 
him.  Hilda  Brennan  and  all  that  was  best  in  the  bygone 
years  merge  in  Jane,  and  yield  him  all  that  is  sweetest  in 
the  present.  These  seem  the  halcyon  days  his  life  has  sighed 
for. 

For  she  is  very  lovable,  very  companionable,  a  dear  reward 
for  all  his  care.  Now  that  he  sees  her  as  he  had  ever  hoped 
she  should  some  day  be,  there  is  a  gratitude  in  his  heart  no 
words  can  tell.  He  feels  since  she  has  passed  the  crucial 
point  where  character  may  be  marred,  he  wants  to  spoil  her 
now;  to  lavish  on  her  all  the  surplus  of  that  proprietory 
paternal  love,  so  heavily  taxed  by  anxiety  in  the  past;  heap 
on  her  all  the  indulgences  of  which  she  was  deprived  by 
prudence  and  wisdom,  those  apprehensive  elderly  sisters  of 
Love. 

Elsewhere  around  them,  little  has  changed  in  these  two 
years.  Anne  looks  not  perceptibly  older,  though  she  has  a 
growing  tendency  to  cry  "  Eh  ?  "  to  any  question  on  its  first 
utterance,  and  accuse  Hester  of  mumbling.  Hester  main- 
tains her  years  and  her  proportions  in  advance  of  Miss  Jane. 
As  Anne  puts  it,  in  moments  of  anger,  she  is  almost  too  big 
for  a  gentleman's  kitchen.  When  she  rolls  up  her  sleeves 
above  her  elbows  fo  wash  the  pots  in  the  steaming  pancheon, 
she  reveals  an  arm  like  an  athlete's  leg  —  that  would  be  a 
dreadful  engine  of  destruction  if  actuated  by  wrath,  and 
indeed  can  beat  beef-steak  with  a  ferocity  that  might  make 
a  prospective  suitor  pick  up  his  hat.  But  she  is,  at  the  base 
of  all  this,  a  monument  of  feminine  good-nature,  who  takes 
rebukes  as  though  they  were  treacle  humbugs,  and  laughs 


148  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

under  censure  through  sheer  enjoyment,  bending  to  wrath 
with  a  glee  for  facing  a  high  wind.  She  would  really, 
perhaps,  be  better  in  a  dairy  farm,  but  best  of  all  does  she 
love  dangling  after  Jane  (whom,  she  confesses  to  Anne,  she 
would  dearly  love  to  kiss,  though  she  cannot  tell  why)  and 
being  admitted  to  the  boudoir  of  Jane's  little  vanities.  She 
is  Jane's  maid,  in  all  but  the  name,  and  flushes  so  hot  with 
joy  and  pride  when  called  on  to  dress  Jane's  hair,  that  Jane 
can  feel  the  warmth  on  her  head  and  neck,  as  though  she 
were  sitting  with  her  back  to  a  fire ;  and  the  fingers  of  the 
great  hands  that  take  up  the  golden-brown  strands  glow 
red-hot,  like  curling  tongs,  to  the  admiring  tribute  — 
"  Lors  Miss  Jane.  Isn't  your  hair  a  length !  " 
Further  afield,  beyond  the  boundaries  of  the  big  house, 
the  sun  of  change  sinks  on  Sunfleet  imperceptibly.  The 
vicar  goes  abroad  with  the  left  arm  in  the  hollow  of  his  back, 
and  the  gun-barrels  glint  in  front  of  him  now  and  again,  but 
the  field  spaniel  has  been  whistled  home  to  his  fathers,  and 
the  vicar's  lips  twitch,  even  to  this  day,  when  he  records  the 
loss.  No  bark  replaces  the  muffled  monosyllable  that  was 
wont  to  acknowledge  the  nodding  of  the  vicarage  bell,  and 
no  successor  runs  forth  to  the  rattling  limit  of  chain,  for  the 
vicar  says  he  is  too  old  to  make  new  friends  now-a-days.  He 
points  to  the  empty  green  kennel,  destitute  of  straw,  with 
the  two  white  enamel  dishes  laid  reverently  within,  and 
says :  "  A  sad  change,  Doctor.  It  makes  me  begin  to  pre- 
pare for  my  own.  Poor  old  Spin.  I  know  you  won't  mis- 
understand me  when  I  say  that  I  looked  upon  that  dog  as  a 
Christian.  I  don't  know  when  I  buried  any  one  in  recent 
years  with  more  regret."  He  looks  up  from  the  sad  contem- 
plation of  this  sorrow  with  the  momentary  glint  of  smile,  as 
when  the  sun's  finger  traces  some  mural  epitaph  in  gold. 
"  My  housekeeper  tells  me  I  positively  shed  tears.  Perhaps 
I  did  .  .  .  perhaps  I  did.  Indeed,  I  hope  I  did ;  the 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  149 

dear  fellow  deserved  them.  Fortunately,  Dr.  Bentham, 
there's  no  cloud  without  its  silver  lining.  I've  just  heard 
from  my  youngest  sister  but  one,  and  you'll  rejoice  to  hear 
that  Hubert  .  .  ." 

On  old  Stebbing,  too,  the  sun  of  change  sets  gently,  laying 
a  heavier  gilding  on  his  shoulders,  but  otherwise  lighting 
small  change  in  him.  He  is  a  firmer  adherent  of  the  Doctor 
than  ever,  for  the  shilling  has  been  several  times  repeated, 
and  on  cold  days  the  Doctor  has  told  him :  "  What  the  devil's 
the  good  of  coughing  like  that,  man !  Do  you  want  to  strain 
your  buttons?  Gan  your  ways  up  to  house  at  once  and  tell 
'em  to  gie  ye  a  basin  of  soup  as  yat  (hot)  as  ye  can  sup 
it." 

And  the  Sunfleet  carrier  and  his  careworn  horse  draw  their 
protracted  shadows  about  the  countryside,  as  though  these 
years  were  but  ale-casks,  empty  and  replenishable.  He  is  a 
patient  of  the  Doctor's  at  last,  and  feels  compelled  to  admit 
that  the  Doctor  frames  much  better  at  his  trade  in  these 
days  than  he  did,  but  he  misses  the  full-bodied  mixture  of 
forty-seven  ingredients  that  made  medicine  medicine  under 
the  Dendy  reign  —  though  here  again  he  confesses  that 
(whether  it  is  the  Doctor  or  not,  which  he  won't  go  so  far  as 
to  say)  the  pains  in  his  back  are  less  severe. 

And  the  Beachington  'bus  rolls  to  and  fro  each  day,  past 
the  Doctor's  brand  new  gate;  and  the  postman  (two  years 
nearer  the  pension  for  which  he  is  envied  in  Sunfleet)  blows 
his  whistle  under  all  sorts  of  skies,  and  in  all  sorts  of 
weather,  to  all  sorts  of  effects ;  now  blithe  and  shrill,  like  a 
soaring  lark ;  now  wet  and  dismal,  as  though  sighed  through 
the  beak  of  a  depressed  thrush  in  the  branches  of  some 
dripping  blackthorn ;  now  blithe  and  vivacious,  a  summons 
and  a  greeting;  now  chill  and  shivering  like  the  north-east 
wind  huddled  in  the  angle  of  some  smoky  flue. 

And  the  mortgage  tide  still  threatens  Pridgeon's  home- 


ISO  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

stead  —  or  is  reported  to  do  so  —  just  as  the  sea  swims  over 
Kenhain  Beach.  The  years  change  the  farmer  little ;  they 
only  seem  to  confirm  and  set  the  seal  upon  him.  He  is 
growing  noticeably  gray,  but  the  smile  pays  no  rent  to  time, 
and  one  almost  acquires  the  belief  that  it  will  not  share  the 
ultimate  corruption  of  Pridgeon's  body,  but  will  take  flight 
at  the  moment  of  defunction,  and  re-incorporate  itself  with 
the  universal  sunlight.  Perhaps  the  lapse  of  years  is  chiefly 
inscribed  in  the  relations  between  the  farmer  and  the  Doctor 
—  but,  here,  too,  in  a  species  of  invisible  ink,  that  only  yields 
its  writing  to  the  warmth  of  intimate  comprehension.  Ex- 
ternally they  greet  with  all  the  evidences  of  friendship,  but 
it  is  a  friendship  reduced  in  these  days  to  a  mere  formula ; 
a  prescription  of  unlifted  hand  and  cheery  smile,  never  com- 
pounded or  made  up.  Truth  to  tell,  the  Doctor's  respecta- 
bility has  slain  the  farmer's  interest,  like  salt  on  a  snail.  He 
cannot  understand  the  Doctor,  and  would  as  soon  try  to  con- 
strue his  present-day  conduct  as  he  would  seek  to  read  the 
pages  of  an  old  school-book.  With  Miss  Perritt's  installation 
it  was  for  Pridgeon  as  though  perpetual  midwinter  frosted 
the  roof  of  the  Doctor's  house.  They  meet,  for  the  most 
part,  like  good  friends  in  a  hurry  —  with  plenty  to  say  if 
they  had  but  time  to  speak ;  but  the  big  brick  house  with  gov- 
ernesses in  Alpine  hats,  and  old  vicars,  and  clerical  nephews, 
becomes  a  resort  of  too  much  respectability  for  the  farmer's 
fancy.  So  soon  as  he  has  decided  that  the  Doctor's  conver- 
sion is,  for  some  incomprehensible  cause,  deep-seated,  he 
consigns  him  to  the  heaven  of  neglect,  and  throws  both  arms 
of  friendship  round  Medling's  neck  —  not  at  all  to  the  lat- 
ter's  advantage. 


XX 

THIS  brings  us,  in  the  third  August  after  Miss  Perritt's 
retirement  to  the  time  of  the  Beachington  Fair,  that 
little  annual  sigh  of  feasting  that  is  the  signal  for  each 
harvest  hereabouts ;  and  on  the  same  afternoon  that  the  pro- 
prietor is  giving  the  last  screw  to  the  bolts  in  the  swingboat 
frame,  and  shouting  orders  through  both  hands  with  a 
fibrous  voice,  there  is  a  queer  thing  on  wheels  creeping  along 
the  Peterwick  road  to  Sunfleet. 

It  is  a  sprawling  cart,  or  the  semblance  of  one,  drawn  by  a 
dejected  ass,  that  plods  with  downcast  head  between  a  man 
on  the  one  hand  and  a  woman  on  the  other.  The  man  is 
an  unprepossessing  figure  of  middle  age,  with  a  stealthy 
tread,  and  a  multitude  of  silver  threads  in  his  reddish  dusty 
hair,  and  a  shabbiness  that  sits  on  him  for  degeneracy.  He 
wears  a  dirty  tweed  cap  with  a  hole  through  it,  and  a  rag  of 
the  worn  lining  flutters  unheeded  over  a  sightless  left  eye 
that  bears  evident  token  to  some  violence  in  recent  years,  for 
the  lid  has  been  cut  through  diagonally  at  one  time,  and  the 
disfiguring  stitches  still  show  in  it,  seaming  him  as  far  as  the 
cheek-bone.  The  other  eye,  with  which  he  sees  to  cuff  the 
donkey,  is  a  morose  member  darkened  by  brooding  over 
dusty  miles  of  roadway,  and  overcast  with  the  memory  of 
much,  as  it  seems,  that  would  be  better  forgotten.  He  is 
unshorn,  and  this  ragged  neglect  of  his  cheeks  subscribes 
unpleasantly  to  the  forbidding  eye,  and  the  rascally  sun- 
burned coat  upon  his  back. 

About  the  woman's  figure  there  is  much  that  the  gaze 
may  rest  on  with  interest,  and  even  pleasure;  for  she  is  of 

151 


152  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

the  picturesque  breed  of  wayfarers,  not  alien  to  the  road  or 
inimical  to  it  (as  the  man  seems  to  be;  hating  every  yard 
traversed,  by  the  look  of  him)  but  at  one  with  the  hedgerows 
and  the  crackling  twigs  that  lend  wild  people  shelter,  and 
kindle  friendly  fires  under  smoking  pots;  and  the  brown 
soil,  seamed  like  an  old  woman's  forehead;  and  the  hot  sun. 
She  is  younger,  by  many  years,  than  her  companion,  and 
there  is  a  strain  of  gypsy  blood  in  her  veins ;  if  not  of  pure 
Romany,  at  least  of  that  swart-skinned  race  of  vagabondage 
that  seems  suckled  of  the  very  soil,  and  yet  has  a  sort  of 
natural  kingship  in  its  eyes  and  brows  as  though  it  were  a 
tribe  in  nearer  and  dearer  relationship  to  Nature's  bosom 
than  the  rest  of  us.  This  woman,  for  instance,  carries  her 
head  with  a  proud  erectness  as  if  poising  an  invisible  pitcher. 
She  has  a  bust  that  a  sculptor  might  love  to  chisel ;  a  gener- 
ous breast  for  infancy ;  a  stormy  habitation  for  pride  and  the 
passions.  Her  eyebrows  are  boldly  traced  in  charcoal  over  a 
smooth  saffron  brow;  the  purposeful  sweeps  of  God's  pencil 
that  lend  a  majesty  and  a  repose  to  the  face,  and  would  be 
dreadful  drawn  to  the  usages  of  wrath.  The  black  eyes 
beneath  glow  calm  like  a  cinder  fire;  burning  in  slow  com- 
bustion as  she  walks,  to  the  smallest  consumption  of  thought ; 
and  the  dusky  lips,  disengaged  and  uncommunicative,  afford 
a  sight  of  bold  healthy  teeth  that  lie  as  regular  as  pearls  on  a 
thread,  though  their  color  suggests  acquaintance  with  the 
brown  stem  of  some  clay  pipe.  The  vagabond  blood  that 
stains  her  skin  to  a  dim  ocher  rather  than  brown,  and  blooms 
on  her  cheek  bones  like  some  deep  dahlia,  shows  no  less 
surely  in  the  touches  of  her  attire ;  the  barbaric  yellows  and 
saffrons  in  the  handkerchief  over  her  hair,  or  the  triple  row 
of  glass  beads  round  her  neck;  the  crimson  apron  over  the 
short  plaid  skirt,  that  allows  to  be  seen  the  extremity  of  her 
firm  limbs  in  their  coarse  hooped  stockings,  and  the  pear- 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  153 

shaped  pendants  of  brass  that  swing  from  the  lobes  of  her 
dusky  ears.  Partly  she  is  a  queen ;  a  princess  begotten  of 
the  red  soil  by  the  golden  sun;  and  partly  she  is  a  mere 
beast  of  burden;  a  complacent  ruminating  animal  with 
scarce  a  thought  to  lift  her  higher  than  the  moment  now. 
The  cart  behind  them  which  sprawls  disproportionately 
over  the  diminutive  wheels  is  cumbered  with  the  primitive 
necessities  of  nomadic  life.  The  forepart  is  hooped  over 
with  willow,  and  patched  with  ragged  canvas  for  the  protec- 
tion of  their  sleeping  accessories,  and  for  their  scant  change 
of  clothing.  Long  wands  of  willow,  suspended  beneath 
the  cart,  above  its  axle,  seem  to  suggest  the  rudiments  for  a 
tent,  while  pots  and  pans  hang  at  its  corners.  Stretched 
across  the  after  part  of  the  vehicle,  in  a  litter  of  straw  and 
rubbish,  lies  a  boy  of  some  stature,  verging  on  youth,  with  a 
yellow  kitten  in  his  arms.  He  is  most  scantily  clad  as  to 
his  upper  proportions,  wearing  but  a  ragged  print  shirt,  so 
buttonless  at  the  neck  as  to  give  no  concealment  to  his  naked 
breast,  which  gleams  curiously  white  in  the  sun.  Every-  now 
and  then  he  strangles  the  yellow  kitten  to  his  mouth  with 
savage  affection,  and  bites  it  with  white  teeth  for  all  the 
world  as  though  he  were  a  dog.  Sometimes  his  embraces 
are  so  passionate  as  to  elicit  a  cry  from  his  furred  com- 
panion, and  there  are  scratches  visible  all  over  his  breast,  at 
close  quarters,  where  the  yellow  kitten  has  dug  protesting  and 
disengaging  claws.  From  time  to  time  he  raises  himself  on 
a  hand,  and  looks  with  animal  interest  at  the  two  walking 
figures  in  front  of  him;  now  and  then  hailing  them  with  a 
brief  inarticulate  cry,  more  like  a  dog's  bark.  This  cry  never 
elicits  any  token  of  responsiveness  from  the  man ;  not  al- 
ways from  the  woman.  But  when  it  does,  and  she  turns 
round  her  swarthy  face  with  a  guttural  scrape  in  her  throat, 
unattended  by  any  usage  of  lip,  the  boy  plunges  himself 


154  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

instantly  back  upon  the  litter,  just  as  a  pup  will  cease  play 
to  seek  the  encouragement  of  its  master's  look,  and  resume 
its  gambols  the  moment  this  has  been  given. 

In  such  fashion  they  have  traversed  many  miles,  for 
Peterwick  saw  them  early  in  the  afternoon,  and  they  had  the 
dust  of  transport  on  them  then. 

Thus  far  along  the  road,  with  small  departure,  these 
people  have  kept  up  their  dogged  pace  on  either  side  of  the 
precise  small  steps  of  the  donkey;  looking  little  to  right  or 
left,  and  speaking  less.  But  as  they  come  in  sight  of  the 
straggling  farms  that  form  the  vanguard  of  Sunfleet  on  the 
Peterwick  side,  they  commence  to  exchange  brief  words 
between  themselves  —  morose  words  —  without  any  inter- 
change of  glance.  And  as  they  come  to  the  loop  of  road 
that  skirts  Pridgeon's  farm,  they  begin  to  lay  arrestive 
hands  on  the  donkey's  cord-patched  harness,  and  converse 
with  its  shaggy  head  under  their  arms,  as  wanderers  who 
begin  to  ask  whether  they  near  their  journey's  end.  And 
the  boy,  rising  from  his  slothful  straw  with  the  yellow  kitten 
against  his  mouth,  stares  mutely  at  the  farmstead  across  its 
intervening  pasture,  and  cries  "  Eh ! "  after  awhile,  as 
though  the  spot  just  perceived  were  his  discovery.  A  brief 
monosyllable  from  the  man  causes  him  to  scramble  from  his 
place  to  the  ground,  where  he  stands  hugging  the  cat  to  his 
bare  breast;  a  loose  figure  of  undisciplined  youth,  with 
brown  cord  trousers  held  up  to  his  shoulders  by  a  single 
brace,  and  bare  feet  darkened  with  the  dust  of  innumerable 
counties ;  the  toe  of  the  right  foot  being  bound  with  a  rag  on 
which  are  traces  of  recent  blood,  although  the  rag  itself 
seems  to  have  been  borrowed  from  vagrant  antiquity.  By 
the  wayside  there  is  a  road-scraping  heap,  and  on  this  the 
woman  subsides  with  a  sigh,  wiping  her  brow  briefly  to 
right  and  left  with  a  flat  hand  wound  up  in  the  fold  of  her 
crimson  apron.  The  man  points  abruptly  to  the  farm,  and 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  155 

spits  in  the  grass,  whereupon  the  boy  commences  to  mount 
the  gate,  still  holding  the  kitten  against  his  breast.  For 
some  reason,  best  known  to  himself,  this  act  creates  opposi- 
tion in  the  man's  will,  for  he  roughly  forbids  it,  with  the 
right  fist  clenched,  and  the  left  hand  extended  peremptorily 
towards  the  cart  as  though  enforcing  the  cat's  replacement. 
Instantly  a  look  of  passionate  objection  breaks  up  the  placid 
surface  of  the  boy's  face.  He  snarls  like  a  fox  at  bay,  and 
drops  to  the  far  side  of  the  gate,  where  he  stands  making 
tearless  whining  noises  of  protestation,  mixed  with  wrath 
and  hatred,  keeping  a  keen  eye  for  their  effect  on  his  perse- 
cutor. The  woman,  who  has  meanwhile  drawn  a  blackened 
pipe  from  her  bosom,  so  diminished  in  stem  as  to  seem 
all  bowl,  and  is  about  to  light  it  with  a  grubby  match 
(which  she  has  already  struck  twice  without  effect  upon  her 
boot)  stops  with  the  match  poised  for  a  third  stroke,  to  say : 
"  Hold  your  noise,  then  —  hold  your  noise  then,  with  you. 
The  master'll  hear  you ! "  and  then  the  poised  hand  swoops 
down  on  her  boot  like  a  hawk,  catching  a  flame  in  passage, 
which  it  bears  to  the  pipe-bowl  beneath  her  fine  aquiline 
nose.  She  sucks  at  it  with  persuasive  noisy  lips,  and  casts 
the  used  match  into  the  hedge,  when  she  is  sure  of  combus- 
tion, with  a  sighing  "  Ah  — !  "  long  protracted.  The  boy, 
reading  no  further  trace  of  opposition  on  the  man's  face, 
casts  his  whining  aside  too,  as  having  served  its  purpose, 
and  goes  off  to  the  farm  with  the  cat's  head  in  his  mouth, 
making  savage  throat-noises  of  affection.  The  man  there- 
upon draws  the  cart  off  the  roadside  into  the  shelter  of  the 
hedge,  where  it  is  free  of  observation  from  the  farmstead, 
and  flings  himself  at  full-length  on  the  rain-slaked  grass, 
which  the  donkey  begins  to  tear  industriously.  A  few  min- 
utes later  the  woman  thrusts  the  pipe-bowl  hastily  into  her 
bosom  and  mutters  in  a  dusky  admonitory  voice,  adjusting 
her  skirt  and  apron  the  while  — 

"  Look !     Here's  the  master  coming." 


XXI 

IN  truth  it  is  Pridgeon's  breezy  voice  whose  accents  are 
wafted  to  the  gate,  and  it  is  Pridgeon's  smile  of  candid 
inspection  beneath  which  the  recumbent  man  rises  to  his 
feet  and  submits  himself  to  scrutiny.  The  farmer  gives 
his  disfigured  eye  a  brief  look,  but  his  chief  gaze  is  for 
the  woman  on  the  road-heap,  who  acknowledges  it  with 
a  baring  of  her  great  teeth  in  a  full-faced  smile  that  hits 
one  between  the  eyes  like  the  knuckles  of  a  sunbeam,  say- 
ing— 

"  Good-day,  masther !  " 

"  Lord  beggar  it,"  says  Pridgeon  to  the  man.  "  So  you've 
gotten  a  lass  wi'  ye!  And  a  strange  fine  one  and  all." 
He  gives  a  second  more  searching  glance  at  the  contour 
of  the  crimson  apron  and  adds  in  a  more  vital  tone,  "  Why, 
she's  drawing  on  her  time,  if  looks  be  anything.  Isn't 
she?" 

A  flush  of  anger  shows  hot  in  the  man's  face,  but  it  is 
withdrawn  at  once  like  a  card  half  tendered,  at  play ;  and  he 
substitutes  a  discreeter  look,  more  befitting  one  who  has  a 
favor  to  ask. 

"  Aye,"  he  says.  "  She's  near  her  time,  or  I  wouldn't 
have  troubled  you." 

The  woman  smiles  at  the  situation  with  an  unembarrassed 
usage  of  her  fine  teeth. 

"  It's  hard  on  a  woman,  masther,"  she  tells  Pridgeon. 
"  I've  walked  fro'  Hunmouth  this  very  day,  along  o'  him  and 
the  lad  yonder,  with  that  very  cart." 

"  Are  you  wed  ? "  says  Pridgeon  amiably,  feeding  his 

156 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  157 

curiosity  alternately  on  the  woman's  teeth  and  bosom  and 
the  man's  blind  eye.  This  time  the  hot  flush  will  not  be 
denied. 

"  What's  that  to  you  ?  "  the  man  taxes  him.  "  I'm  not. 
here  to  beg  questions.  If  you've  nothing  better  to  give  me 
we'll  move  on." 

His  outburst,  that  darkens  his  own  face  appreciably,  costs 
nothing  to  the  farmer's  smile. 

"  Lord  bless  us,"  he  says.  "  A  good  question  never  did 
anybody  any  harm.  If  you're  wed  you're  wed ;  if  you  aren't 
wed  you  aren't  wed.  I  shall  make  none  the  worse  tea 
for  it." 

The  man  turned  curtly  on  the  woman  with  a  word,  and 
she  held  out  her  brown  hand  with  a  brass  marriage  symbol 
bitten  into  its  third  finger. 

"  There's  the  very  ring  he  gave  me,  masther,"  she  said. 
"  On  the  very  finger  you  see  there  afore  ye.  The  very  ring 
and  the  very  finger,  as  true  as  I  sit  on  this  arth." 

Pridgeon  laughed  aloud. 

"  And  if  you  was  to  know  a  place  called  Becclesford, 
masther,  which  is  a  little  place  called  Becclesford  close 
beyond  Louth  in  Lincoln-sheer,  I  could  tell  you  the  very 
shop  where  this  ring  was  bought.  The  very  shop,  masther." 
She  spoke  with  a  clumsy  usage  of  her  lips,  forming  her 
words  with  the  same  laborious  care  that  an  ignorant  scribe 
takes  to  form  his  letters,  as  one  unaccustomed  to  the  em- 
ployment of  speech,  using  a  bastard  dialect,  and  hesitating 
at  times  with  an  effect  of  being  a  foreigner,  and  a  prisoner 
beyond  the  bars  of  this  her  own,  and  only,  tongue. 

"  And  what's  your  trade  ?  "  Pridgeon  asked,  turning  with 
a  careless  laugh  to  the  man.  The  man  took  the  query  in  an 
ill-sense  once  more,  as  though  Pridgeon's  easy  smile  chafed 
some  raw  wound  in  his  nature. 

"  Any  trade   you   like,"   he   said   with   sudden   bitterness, 


158  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

"  that  has  a  copper  in  it."  He  burst  out  with  an  oath. 
"  Do  you  think  this  eye  and  these  rags  aren't  sufficient  for 
a  man  to  carry  but  you  must  put  your  blasted  questions  on 
him?" 

"  Why,  it's  a  baddish  eye,"  Pridgeon  admitted  compla- 
cently. "  I've  been  looking  at  it  a  bit.  How  did  you  come 
by  it  ?  Was  it  a  bottle  ?  " 

"  A  bottle  ?  "  cried  the  man.  "  Aye,  it  was  a  bottle  if  you 
want  to  know.  With  a  woman  at  the  back  of  it." 

"  Lord,  what  a  lass  can  do  when  she  tries,"  said  Pridgeon 
admiringly.  "  There  was  a  lass  up  Merensea  way  clawed  my 
face  once  in  the  dark,  and  I  carried  the  slut's  mark  on  my 
cheek  for  a  twelvemonth.  Can  ye  see  out  of  it  ?  " 

"  If  I  could,"  said  the  man  with  sudden  passion,  "  I'd  like 
to  see  her  burning  in  hell  that  did  it.  What's  to  be  done 
with  an  eye  like  this  ? " 

"  Why,  not  a  deal,"  Pridgeon  agreed.  "  You  might  wear 
a  shade  ower  it.  One  o'  my  uncles  did,  though  I  can't  say 
it  improved  him." 

"  Yes,  but  if  I  were  to  wear  a  shade,"  the  man  said, 
"  people  would  set  it  down  to  trickery,  and  say  I  could  see 
well  enough  if  I  would.  This  eye,"  and  he  struck  it  a  fierce 
blow  with  a  strangely  white  hand,  dirty  withal,  and  much 
discolored  with  nicotine  about  the  nails,  "  this  eye  has  spelt 
damnation  for  me.  Ever  since  I  got  it  folks  won't  give  me 
work,  and  they  begrudge  me  bread.  When  I  want  a  favor 
I  have  to  send  the  missus  or  the  boy  to  beg  it,  for  they 
wouldn't  give  it  me  if  I  asked  myself." 

"  Why  to  be  sure,"  Pridgeon  acquiesced,  appraising  the 
man's  affliction  with  a  genial  dispassion,  as  if  he  were  the 
valuer  of  crops,  "  the  eye  doesn't  help  you  a  deal.  It  has  a 
sort  of  drunken  look  with  it.  Do  you  drink  at  all  ?  " 

"  Do  you  ?  "  retorted  the  man  curtly. 

"  Not  nearly  so  much  as   I  did,"  the   farmer  answered 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  159 

without  animus.  "  Only  just  now  and  again  for  company. 
I  expect  I  shall  have  an  extra  sup  to-night  at  Beachington. 
It's  a  poor  heart  that  never  rejoices." 

"What  sort  o'  company  would  you  call  this  eye,  then?" 
the  man  asked  him.  "  That  would  give  you  something  to 
drink  for;  something  to  try  and  forget.  I'm  branded  with 
it.  It  blots  me  out  from  all  that's  decent  and  honest.  I'm 
not  a  man  any  longer;  I'm  a  blind  eye.  When  anything 
goes  wrong  in  any  place  we  pass  through,  they  come  after 
this  eye,  and  the  policeman  asks  me  to  give  an  account  of 
it,  and  where  it  was  at  such  and  such  a  time.  And  before  I 
can  open  my  lips  to  speak  they  warn  me  to  tell  the  truth, 
or  it'll  be  the  worse  for  me,  and  when  I've  told  the  truth 
they  look  as  if  I'd  done  them  an  injury,  and  if  they  can't 
fix  anything  on  to  this  blasted  eye  they  tell  me  I've  given 
them  enough  trouble  as  it  is,  and  I'd  best  take  care  in  future 
or  it'll  be  going  hard  with  me."  He  wound  up  with  an  oath 
once  more.  "  And  my  father  was  a  magistrate  for  his  county 
at  one  time  —  though  I  don't  ask  you  to  believe  it.  And  I've 
known  what  it  was  to  draw  my  hundred  over  a  Derby  winner. 
I  never  thought  then  that  I  should  come  to  beg  the  pitch  for 
my  night's  lodgings  from  such  as  you." 

"  What !  You've  come  down  in  the  world,  then  ?  "  said 
Pridgeon,  renewing  interest  in  this  ragged  visitor  with  a 
change  of  foot  on  the  lower  gate-rail.  "  Aye,  there's  a  look 
of  it  about  you,  now  I  come  to  notice.  I'd  an  uncle  once  who 
turned  a  four  hundred  acre  farm  into  whisky,  and  supped  it 
all  in  one  year.  He  was  just  such  another,  only  broader 
across  his  shoulders.  What's  brought  you  to  a  spot  like 
this?" 

"  God  Almighty  knows,"  said  the  man.  "  And  He  gives 
no  reasons.  She  " —  he  indicated  the  seated  woman  with  a 
throw  of  his  unclean  fingers  — "  knows  the  district,  and  the 
lad,  her  brother.  I've  never  set  foot  this  way  before.  I 


160  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

know  the  southern  counties,  and  the  Kent  hopfields,  and  all 
the  racecourses  you  can  mention,  but  they  ought  to  call  this 
country  World  Without  End,  Amen." 

"  Can  you  handle  a  fork  ?  "  asked  Pridgeon.  "  Are  ye  any- 
good  in  the  harvest-field  ?  Can  ye  team  ?  " 

"  I  harvested  in  Lincolnshire  last  summer,"  said  the  way- 
farer. "  But  they've  got  a  self-binder  and  a  hired  man  this 
year,  and  they  think  they'll  try  and  manage  themselves. 
We've  worked  our  way  along  the  roads  and  here  we  are. 
The  missus  can  make  besoms  and  clothes-pegs,  and  there 
are  not  many  things  I  can't  turn  a  hand  to.  If  you  want 
any  stack-pegs  I'll  trim  them  up  for  you  in  exchange  for  a 
night's  shelter  and  a  bit  of  something  to  eat.  You'll  find  all 
your  eggs  where  the  hens  lay  them,  and  God  strike  my 
sound  eye  blind  if  I  or  the  others  would  touch  so  much  as  a 
mushroom  without  your  sanction." 

"  Why,  damn  it,"  said  Pridgeon  stirred  by  the  some- 
thing human  in  the  concluding  appeal.  "  I  mean  to  trust 
you,  anyhow ;  and  as  for  the  mushrooms,  you're  welcome  to 
all  you  find  in  this  field  and  the  next.  I  like  your  words, 
and  I  like  the  lass,  and  I  never  closed  my  gate  yet  against 
decent  people."  He  threw  it  open  at  that,  and  called: 
"  Come  along  with  you,  lass.  Now,  master,  get  yon  cart 
turned  and  follow  me  up  this  grass  field." 

The  boy  had  been  alternately  reading  the  text  of  the 
conversation  in  the  varying  countenances  around  him,  as 
though  it  had  been  conducted  in  a  foreign  tongue,  and 
studying  the  farmer's  face,  and  fondling  the  yellow  kitten 
which  was  attached  to  him  by  a  piece  of  coarse  twine,  looped 
through  the  button-hole  at  his  shirt-neck,  and  tied  (too 
tightly,  it  seemed,  by  the  look  of  it)  round  the  kitten's  neck, 
so  that  the  kitten  was  ever  interrupting  its  own  play  to  claw 
at  the  thin  constriction  of  windpipe.  The  sight  of  move- 
ment in  the  cart  impelled  him  to  fling  his  body  once  more 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  161 

upon  the  straw,  as  though  this  were  his  accredited  place 
when  the  wheels  revolved.  And  thus,  with  the  moody  man 
at  the  donkey's  head,  and  the  tall  woman  poising  her  queenly 
head  and  bearing  her  physical  encumbrance  with  familiar 
ease,  Pridgeon  led  the  way  to  the  farm's  outbuildings,  where, 
before  a  disused  cart-shed  he  paused  and  asked  how  such  a 
shelter  would  suit  their  night's  requirements.  The  woman, 
requiting  the  question  with  her  regal  smile,  told  him  might 
they  never  know  a  worse  night's  lodging  than  this. 

"  Why,  it'll  keep  you  dry,"  he  said,  with  a  laughing  look- 
round  of  one  not  particularly  prepossessed  in  its  favor. 
"  And  you'll  be  sheltered  from  the  north.  You  can  have  as 
much  clean  straw  for  bedding  as  you  care  to  hug,  so  long  as 
you  won't  smoke  in  it.  Aye!  turn  the  donkey  loose,  mas- 
ter," he  said.  "  He'll  find  plenty  of  good  meat,  but  watch  he 
doesn't  go  too  gain-hand  the  far  end.  I've  some  young  horses 
there  that  might  kick  out  at  him  if  he  got  within  smelling 
distance  of  their  heels." 

The  woman  unmasked  the  full  bold  battery  of  teeth  in  a 
persuasive  smile. 

"  May  we  beg  a  bit  of  fire,  masther  ?  "  she  supplicated. 
"  It  do  turn  that  perishing  cold  of  a  night." 

"  Why,  I'm  not  fond  o'  fires,"  Pridgeon  retorted.  "  Not 
many  farmers  are.  Fires  are  like  children,  best  kept  in- 
doors ;  you  never  know  what  mischief  they'll  be  up  to.  But 
there  won't  be  much  in  yon  stackgarth  to  take  a  deal  of  hurt 
yet  a  bit."  He  caught  a  full  beam  of  the  smile  and  said: 
"  Aye !  damn  it,  go  on,  lass.  Stick  your  fire  in  yon  bucket, 
but  set  her  well  away  back  fro'  building  end.  Take  what 
kindling  you  want  fro'  warren;  don't  pluck  fences.  And 
when  you've  gotten  fittled  up,  come  your  ways  to  kitchen 
and  I'll  see  they  give  you  some  tea  and  milk.  Aye!  and  a 
few  lumps  o'  coal  to  put  a  heart  in  your  bucket;  it  looks  a 
hungry  thing.  God  bless  it,  farming's  a  rum  job.  Do  all 


162  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

the  good  you  can,  say  I,  while  you're  at  it,  for  a  man  never 
knows  how  soon  somebody  else  will  be  latching  his  gates  and 
warming  his  backside  at  kitchen  fire.  I  may  be  following 
your  trade  myself  some  day." 

That  same  night  there  was  a  fusillade  of  pebbles  against 
the  Doctor's  bedroom  window,  and  the  dawn-stars,  steal- 
ing from  the  sky  later,  heard  before  they  quitted  the 
firmament  a  new  cry  registered  in  humanity.  The  blind- 
eyed  man's  promise  to  Pridgeon  that  they  would  be  gone  by 
daybreak,  damping  the  fire  and  closing  the  gates  behind 
them,  was  rendered  vain,  for  beneath  their  rude  canvas 
shelter  the  queen-mother  clasped  a  bastard  princeling  to  her 
breast,  and  the  man  and  the  boy  made  themselves  a  still 
ruder  shelter  in  an  adjoining  compartment  of  the  cart-shed, 
where  the  man  cast  himself  prone  on  straw,  as  though  add- 
ing this  calamity  to  his  list  of  grievances,  along  with  the 
eye. 

Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  these  wayside  people,  as 
transitory  in  their  passage  for  the  most  part  as  shadows  on  a 
wall,  were  brought  to  attach  themselves  by  roots  of  hard 
necessity  to  Sunfleet  soil.  And  the  sympathetic  Pridgeon,  to 
whom  maternity  in  difficulties  spoke  with  special  appeal,  lent 
a  stack-cover  for  the  more  effective  purpose  of  shelter,  and 
gave  orders  that  the  dark-skinned  mother  was  to  have  every- 
thing in  reason  that  the  dairy  or  household  could  yield. 
The  blind-eyed  man  he  set  to  work  on  odd  jobs  about  the 
farm;  to  the  mucking  out  of  styes  and  stables,  the  slopping 
of  pigs  and  watering  of  cattle,  treating  him  at  once  with  the 
brevity  for  a  vagrant,  and  something  of  the  fellowship  for  a 
gentleman.  Nor  did  the  Doctor's  house  contribute  nothing 
more  than  medical  attendance.  Anne,  breathing  fire  and 
slaughter  against  this  wanton  multiplication  of  poverty,  with 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  163 

many  pious  wishes  that  the  bairn  might  have  died  at  birth, 
yet  ransacked  the  house  for  things  of  comfort  and  necessity 
to  motherhood,  and  cooked  strengthening  dishes  that  she  said 
it  was  a  sin  to  waste  on  syke  people. 

Even  the  vicar  was  stirred  to  interest  in  the  event,  and 
came  round  expressly  to  the  Doctor's  house. 

"  Are  they  honest  people,"  asked  the  good  man.  "  One 
does  not  like  to  think  ill  of  one's  fellows,  but  I  must  ad- 
mit—" 

"  Who  knows  ?  "  said  the  Doctor.  "  The  woman  is  as  fine 
a  specimen  of  her  sex  as  ever  passed  through  my  hands,  if 
only  she  were  as  clean  as  she  is  healthy.  But  the  man 
struck  me  as  a  true  degenerate.  I've  not  had  much  truck 
with  him,  but  he  led  me  to  understand  that  he's  seen  better 
days,  before  some  woman  laid  his  eye  open  with  a  spirit 
decanter,  and  I  can  quite  well  believe  it.  He  quoted  a 
couple  of  words  of  Latin  to  me  as  a  proof  of  his  scholarship 
—  very  unpleasant  they  sounded." 

"  Latin !  "  said  the  vicar.  "  What  a  pity  my  nephew 
Vincent  were  not  here.  A  brilliant  classical  scholar  —  an 
honors  man.  I  sometimes  think  to  myself,  that  no  man  was 
ever  more  blest  in  his  nephews  and  nieces  than  I.  I  can 
honestly  affirm  that  they  have  never  caused  me  one  single 
moment's  anxiety  since  they  were  born.  You  will  admit 
that  that  is  a  proud  boast." 

Such  a  proud  boast,  indeed,  that  it  covered  the  blind-eyed 
man  and  the  gypsy  woman  and  the  little  pink-fleshed  prince, 
like  the  conjuror's  handkerchief,  and  caused  them  to  vanish 
for  the  time  being  into  illimitable  space  —  whence  the  Doc- 
tor, who  was  already  preparing  to  set  foot  on  the  step  of  his 
Raleigh  for  the  morning's  round,  made  no  effort  to  recover 
them. 

But  destiny  works  more  wonders  than  the  wizard's  hand- 


164  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

kerchief;  brings  the  hated  together;  dissevers  the  loved; 
makes  dreams  into  reality,  and  teases  out  the  threads  of  life 
into  the  floss  of  dreams. 

For  the  morrow  is  Jane's  music  day  in  Hunmouth.  She 
drives  herself  to  Peterwick  station  in  the  morning,  with  the 
Doctor  by  her  side;  and  in  the  evening,  when  the  hot  Hun- 
mouth  train  has  panted  into  the  station  with  all  the  tradi- 
tional formulae  of  arrival,  she  takes  her  seat  by  Numphy's 
side  once  more,  and  drives  homeward  in  the  mellowing  light. 
The  sun  is  sinking  towards  the  west,  and  the  dust  of  his 
dry  beams  and  the  dust  of  the  powdered  roadway,  and  the 
fine  impalpable  dust  from  the  ripe  corn  commingle  in  one 
common  glory  of  gold  over  all  the  landscape.  The  heavy 
grain  bows  its  head  as  at  the  hour  of  angelus ;  gates  that 
would  be  drab  in  the  more  sordid  light  of  day,  gleam  out 
white  with  the  strange  purity  of  marble  in  this  searching, 
yet  subjugating  twilight.  Swifts  wheel  aloft  in  the  trans- 
lucent sky,  tracing  their  tireless  emblems  of  spiritual  hap- 
piness; the  blackbird  haunts  the  hedges,  and  flocks  of  star- 
lings make  sudden  palpitating  wing-walls  against  the 
sunlight;  and  there  are  strings  of  cattle  trailing  along  the 
roadside,  with  the  sun  on  their  flanks.  Just  such  an  even- 
ing it  is  that  seems  to  express  in  outward  symbol  all  that 
the  human  heart  knows  of  hopes  of  happiness ;  an  evening 
that  makes  of  life  a  mystery  of  joy  and  sadness,  almost  un- 
bearably beautiful;  an  evening  to  rise  up  on  the  wings  of 
memory  in  after  years  like  a  specter,  and  haunt  the  heart 
to  tears;  an  evening  that  seems  already  half  immortal,  as 
pertaining  to  a  beauty  that  cannot  altogether  die,  and  yet 
tremulous  with  brief  mortality  that  is  the  very  essence  of 
its  magic. 

Does  the  Doctor  divine  the  nature  of  this  beauty  that 
invests  the  world  as  they  drive  home  in  it  ?  —  or  Jane  ?  Jane 
surely  not,  for  her  lips  are  full  of  Hunmouth  doings ;  of  her 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  165 

music  and  the  new  song  that  she  bought  at  Gadd  and 
Danby's:  "Love,  I  will  love  You  alway,"  which  is  being 
sung  with  enormous  success  by  one  known  and  six  unknown 
singers,  and  is  published  in  five  keys  to  suit  all  voices ;  and 
of  Chaminade's  "  Les  Sylvains,"  which  she  is  to  prepare  for 
her  next  lesson ;  and  of  the  summer  sales  in  Hunmouth ; 
and  of  a  thousand  trivialities  that  serve  to  animate  her 
countenance  to  beautiful  fervor,  as  small  twigs  kindle  flames 
of  rare  consequence.  She  is  as  unconscious  of  her  share 
in  the  evening's  magic  as  the  wheat  or  the  circling  swifts, 
but  for  the  Doctor,  sitting  sideways  the  better  to  behold,  and 
receiving  all  her  prattle  into  his  indulgent  smile,  she  is  the 
mouthpiece  of  nature's  message:  that  human  interpreter, 
without  which  all  inanimate  beauty  must  be  unintelligible. 

SQ  they  drive  home  with  the  sun  on  their  shoulders,  and 
disperse  the  ellipse  of  gilded  gnats  by  the  Doctor's  main  gate, 
and  neither  the  Doctor  nor  the  girl  can  suspect  that  this 
beauteous  eve  of  mingling  lights  which  nature  extends  to 
them  so  bountifully,  is  as  a  goblet  of  fair  wine  in  which  the 
secret  hand  of  destiny  has  dropped  its  poison  as  they  drove. 


XXII 

IT  is  night.  Jane  has  just  gone  to  bed.  The  tingle  of  her 
double  kiss  is  still  on  the  doctor's  cheek  as  he  returns 
to  the  big  one-time  schoolroom  (that  is  now  a  drawing- 
room,  to  be  completed  one  of  these  days  on  a  scale  of  un- 
paralleled grandeur  when  the  Doctor's  ship  lands  home) 
where,  during  this  past  hour  she  had  been  filling  its  voids 
with  music  of  lip  and  finger.  There,  on  the  faded  piano 
desk,  wrapped  even  now  in  the  faint  acridity  of  extinguished 
candle,  is  "  Love,  I  will  love  You  alway,"  in  E  flat,  that  she 
must  have  sung  six  times  at  least  —  and  not  one  too  many  for 
the  doctor's  appreciation  —  and  a  monthly  rose  on  the  broad, 
old-fashioned  fall  of  the  piano  where  her  own  fingers  laid  it. 
The  Doctor,  returning  breezily  into  the  room  with  a  free 
baritone  transcription  of  "  Love,  I  will  love  You  alway," 
between  his  lips,  picks  up  the  blossom  in  passing,  and  in- 
hales its  fragrance  with  a  smile,  as  though  it  breathed  Jane's 
name.  Barely  has  he  laid  down  the  flower  when  he  turns 
his  head  suddenly  to  an  alert  attitude  of  listening.  What 
was  that?  Somebody  knocking?  To  the  conviction  of  a 
sound  of  knuckles  somewhere,  furtively  applied,  he  passed 
out  into  the  hall. 

No  expectant  face  received  the  lamplight  in  blinking  eyes 
when  he  threw  open  the  door,  nor  throat  uttered  its  apolo- 
getic scrape  by  way  of  insinuating  identity;  but  as  he  stood 
with  the  door-knob  in  his  hand,  gazing  out  into  the  starlight 
night,  he  heard  a  course  of  footsteps  winding  their  way  over 
the  gravel  round  the  house's  front,  and  when  these  had 
drawn  at  last  into  the  magnified  area  of  light  cast  through 

166 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  167 

the  door,  with  his  own  gigantic  shadow  in  the  center  of  it, 
he  discerned  the  blind-eyed  man. 

The  latter  slouched  towards  the  lamplit  step  without 
speaking,  the  torn  cloth  cap  lying  inconsequently  over  his 
untidy  hair,  with  half  the  lining  exposed,  carrying  his  right 
hand  secretively  in  his  left  as  though  it  were  an  article  ill 
come  by.  Not  an  object  to  inspire  much  profusion  of  kind- 
ness in  the  heart  of  man,  but  the  Doctor  hailed  his  unpre- 
possessing figure  with  the  voice  that  makes  no  discrimination 
in  suffering,  called  him  "  my  lad,"  and  asked  what  brought 
him,  in  tones  that  might  dismiss  all  apprehensions  for  in- 
trusion. To  his  question  the  man  did  not  immediately 
reply,  but  he  drew  so  close  to  the  door  under  the  shadow  of 
the  Doctor's  chest  that  the  latter  could  scent  his  smoke- 
saturated  clothes,  with  their  hovering  atmosphere  of  stale 
beer;  and  he  cast  a  keener  look  upon  his  visitor's  face  for 
the  signs  of  recent  inebriation  that  might  account  for  this 
midnight  call.  The  blind-eyed  man  spat  to  the  side  for 
preface  of  speech,  and  parted  his  iron-gray  mustache  to  right 
and  left  with  two  quick  movements  of  his  knuckles. 

"  I'd  like  a  few  words  with  you,  Doctor,"  he  said,  in  a 
voice  so  curiously  low  that  the  Doctor  found  hard  to  decide 
whether  it  stood  for  menace  or  respect. 

"With  me?"  he  asked,  scrutinizing  his  visitor  more 
closely.  "  You  call  at  a  queer  time  of  night,  my  lad." 

"  It  suits  me  if  it  suits  you,"  said  the  blind-eyed  man. 
"  All  times  are  one  to  a  man  with  the  stars  for  his  blanket. 
Besides,  I  saw  you  were  engaged,  or  I  would  have  knocked 
sooner.  I've  been  waiting  about  this  last  hour  or  more.  I 
knew  you  wouldn't  thank  me  to  disturb  your  music." 

The  Doctor  was  already  acquainted  with  the  rough  tones 
of  a  voice  from  which  adversity  had  rubbed  all  the  surface- 
polish,  with  injuring  scratches  here  and  there  scarred  down 
into  the  very  grain  of  speech,  and  he  knew  the  persistent 


168  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

note  of  bitterness  that  characterized  this  unwilling  wayfarer, 
but  for  the  first  time  he  seemed  to  detect  a  sudden  personal 
edge  to  the  man's  discontent,  as  though  he  were  now  but 
dallying  with  its  blade,  in  the  way  that  a  butcher  will  try 
the  knife  across  his  thumb  before  using  its  keenness  against 
a  lamb's  throat. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  and  what  have  you  to  say  to  me  ?  " 

"  Something  that  can  be  said  as  well  indoors,  perhaps," 
the  man  replied  in  the  same  low  voice,  without  direct  in- 
solence, and  yet  with  a  lurking  note  of  assertiveness  that 
assorted  ill  with  his  rags,  and  lent  a  still  more  sinister  aspect 
to  the  blind  eye.  "  I've  no  warm  woollen  next  my  skin,  and 
these  blasted  stars  nip  like  bugs.  There'll  be  frost  before 
morning." 

The  Doctor  paused  a  moment  with  his  gaze  on  the  dirty 
and  unshaven  visage  that  offered  such  an  unpleasant  resting- 
place  to  the  lamplight.  Then  he  drew  back  from  the  door- 
way. 

"  Come  in/'  said  he. 

The  man  obeyed  the  invitation  with  a  slouching  alacrity 
that  inferred  he  had  had  no  doubts  of  its  being  tendered; 
insinuating  first  one  and  then  the  other  ragged  leg  into  the 
hall,  and  doffing  the  raggedness  that  surmounted  his. hair. 
All  this  he  did  with  a  curious  mixture  of  defiance  and 
respect,  as  though  he  hated  the  craven  motions  of  subservi- 
ence in  which  his  body,  through  long  habituation,  had  come 
to  be  a  prisoner. 

Something  about  his  harder  breathing,  too,  once  within 
the  hall,  seemed  to  hint  at  a  disposition  in  fetters,  a  nature 
writhing  to  cast  off  its  artificial  encumbrance  of  poverty  and 
assert  its  rights  as  man  and  equal ;  but  that  the  grotesque 
disparity  of  his  unkempt  chin  and  odorous  rags  forbade  it. 
Instead,  he  gripped  the  torn  cap  in  both  hands,  and  let 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  169 

the  sound  eye  loose  upon  all  the  salient  features  of  the  hall 
in  one  stealthy  savage  glance,  as  if  he  had  popped  a  poaching 
ferret  down  a  rabbit-hole.  The  next  moment  he  stood 
within  the  surgery,  his  ragged  outline  blinking  to  steadfast 
visibility  by  the  door,  under  the  kindling  of  the  lamp. 

"  Now,  my  lad,"  said  the  Doctor,  screwing  up  the  wicks, 
"what's  on  your  mind?"  Saying  that,  he  closed  the  door 
and  took  his  way  across  to  the  fireplace,  where,  with  hands 
thrust  encouragingly  into  his  trouser's  pockets,  he  awaited 
the  man's  speech. 

"  I'm  told  there  is  a  niece  of  yours  living  with  you  here," 
the  man  began,  after  a  moment's  pause.  "  Her  that  was  in 
the  gig  with  you  this  afternoon,  and  that  was  singing  and 
playing  to  you  in  the  far  room  to-night.  I'd  like  to  know 
her  name." 

Had  the  lamplight  sunk  two  sudden  degrees  lower?  Was 
there  a  mist  thickening  in  the  room,  as  though,  between  the 
Doctor  and  the  blind-eyed  man,  the  atmosphere  had  curdled  ? 
And  was  the  air  become,  in  one  instant,  insufferably  hot? 
If  not,  then  what  subtle  poison  was  there  distilled  in  the 
man's  speech  to  course  like  lightning  through  the  Doctor's 
veins? 

"  I  fail  to  see,"  he  said,  in  colder  tones  than  he  had  used 
to  encourage  his  visitor's  confidence,  "  what  this  subject  has 
to  do  with  you." 

"  Perhaps  you  do,"  said  the  blind-eyed  man.  "  But  a 
question's  a  question.  I  can  answer  my  questions  well 
enough  when  the  time  comes.  Is  her  name  Jane  Alston  ?  " 

"  And  if  it  is  ?  "  returned  the  Doctor. 

"  And  if  it  is  ?  "  echoed  the  blind-eyed  man,  whose  very 
rags  began  now  to  put  on  the  semblance  of  a  horrible 
authority,  and  assert  themselves  like  hostile  and  powerful 
banners  beneath  the  Doctor's  gaze.  "  If  it, is,  then  was  her 


i;o  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

mother's  name  Hilda  Brennan?  and  was  her  father's  name 
Julian  Alston  ?  These  are  three  questions  for  you  —  and,  by 
God,  your  face  answers  them !  " 

In  truth,  the  Doctor  had  turned  very  white,  and  needed 
no  words  to  tell  him  of  the  change.  Here  was  the  blow 
fallen  at  last,  that  all  these  years  he  had  dreaded,  and  yet 
derided  too,  with  the  maturer  reason  that  refuses  to  wear  the 
fetters  of  instinctive  fear.  This  was  the  thing  that  over- 
shadowed so  many  of  his  hours  in  the  past ;  the  specter  that 
he  had  raised  on  innumerable  evenings  out  of  his  pipe,  to 
combat  and  overthrow,  under  a  hundred  guises,  and  in  a 
hundred  circumstances  —  but  never  once  like  this,  in  this 
guise  and  in  this  room.  In  the  silence  that  succeeded  the 
blow  he  heard  the  lethargic  tick-tacking  of  the  hall  clock, 
grotesquely  dispassionate  and  unmoved  in  its  motion  towards 
this  recent  quickening  of  the  pulses  of  time;  and  beyond 
its  measured  echoes  he  seemed  to  discern,  with  a  sudden 
minuteness  of  hearing,  the  spacious  stillness  that  lay  about 
the  upper  regions  of  the  house,  on  landing,  and  by  bedroom 
doors. 

"Who  are  you?"  he  asked,  though  his  heart  and  all  his 
fibers  sounded  the  name.  "  Julian  Alston  ?  " 

"  What  is  left  of  him,"  said  the  man  with  the  blind  eye. 

The  Doctor  faced  him  in  silence;  behind  those  steady 
eyes  all  his  thoughts  were  circling  about  him  in  commotion 
like  pigeons  at  a  gunshot.  This  was  Julian  Alston !  This 
ragged  sediment  of  humanity,  whose  very  speech  was  be- 
ginning to  incorporate  with  the  depravity  of  his  life  and 
surroundings,  so  that  it  only  now  revealed  through  occa- 
sional loopholes  of  accent  or  asjjirate  the  ruined  vestiges  of 
the  gentleman;  this  inciter  of  repulsions  and  repugnances 
was  the  once  proud  unscrupulous  being  who  had  dealt  the 
Doctor  his  life's  blow.  Here,  reduced  to  the  formula  of 
misery  and  wretchedness,  was  the  breaker  of  Hilda  Bren- 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  171 

nan's  heart,  the  father  of  Jane,  the  father  of  that  other  in- 
fant mortal  whose  lips  made  savage  music  at  the  gypsy 
woman's  breast.  Had  these  two  men  come  together  years 
ago,  heaven  knows  what  conduct  might  have  been  kindled 
by  hatred  and  hot  blood.  But  Jane's  soft  lips  had  sucked 
all  the  poison  out  of  that  old  wound,  and  the  personal  part 
of  their  quarrel  seemed  altogether  expressed  from  the  Doc- 
tor's heart.  He  was  no  longer  facing  a  foe  on  the  sward  of 
an  old  feud ;  he  was  defending  that  dearer  life  than  his  own 
against  the  new  evil  lurking  infectively  beneath  these  rags. 
Often  and  often  in  the  years  ago  he  had  speculated  on  the 
semblance  of  his  injurer;  had  wondered  in  hours  of  bitter- 
ness and  anger  what  fashion  of  man  had  cast  him  forth 
from  Hilda  Brennan's  heart.  Now,  with  this  mortal  residue 
in  front  of  him,  his  curiosity  seemed  strangely  lulled.  He 
asked  no  questions  of  the  past ;  drew  no  comparisons  that 
were  not  forced  upon  him  by  the  sheer  exigences  of  sight 
and  the  senses.  All  his  thoughts  were  for  the  present  and 
the  future ;  not  his  own  personal  future,  but  the  future  that 
pertained  to  Jane  and  her  happiness.  What  obligation  in 
wisdom  was  entailed  on  him  now  by  the  apparition  of  this 
sinister  being?  How  must  he  manipulate  this  miserable 
circumstance  for  the  girl's  best  interests? 

"  Well,"  said  he  at  last,  in  a  voice  that  departed  further 
and  further  from  the  reassuring  tones  of  kindliness  with 
which  he  had  hailed  his  unprepossessing  visitor  as  "  my 
lad,"  and  grew  hard  and  more  tense ;  "  and  what  do  you 
want  with  me  ?  " 

"Want?"  exclaimed  Alston,  holding  out  the  ragged  cap 
and  the  spread  fingers  of  his  unclean  left  hand  —  that  was, 
withal,  so  dishonestly  white  beneath  its  dirt.  "  Come ! 
That's  a  sanguinary  cool  thing  to  say  to  a  man  whose 
daughter's  sleeping  under  this  very  roof.  Look  at  these 
slops !  "  he  cried,  with  a  sudden  note  of  passion  that  blazes 


172  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

like  straw  in  the  bosom  of  the  unclassed,  ".  .  .  and  this 
head-rag  that  I  took  from  a  scarecrow  in  the  wolds;  and 
this  coat  that's  as  rotten  as  grass;  and  these  beggar's  boots 
that  suck  up  water  like  a  squirt;  and  at  this  blasted  eye  — 
and  ask  yourself  if  there's  anything  in  the  God's  world  I 
don't  want.  I've  been  mucking  out  pigs  most  of  the  day  — 
treading  up  to  my  ankles  in  wet  filth.  Damn  it,  you  must 
smell  me  if  you've  half  a  nose.  And  eating  broken  victuals 
off  a  cracked  plate  like  a  dog;  and  handing  the  damned 
plate  back  with  a  '  thank  you '  when  I  felt  more  like  break- 
ing it  over  the  slut's  head.  And  yet  you've  the  face  to  ask 
me  what  I  want.  I  want  what  I  can  get  —  the  same  as 
everybody  else  in  this  world.  I  want  my  rights,  and  if  I 
can't  get  my  rights  I  want  the  next  best  thing  to  them.  I 
want  Something;  that's  what  I  want.  I've  had  nothing 
quite  long  enough.  Now  I'm  ready  for  a  change." 

The  Doctor  shifted  his  posture  against  the  mantelpiece. 

"  And  what  are  your  rights  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  The  rights  of  a  father,"  said  Julian  Alston,  with  blinking 
effrontery. 

"  Which,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  you  have  long  ago  for- 
feited." 

"  Forfeited?  By  thunder,  no.  I've  forfeited  everything 
that  law  and  injustice  could  strip  me  of.  I've  forfeited 
position.  I've  forfeited  wealth  and  character,  and  I've  for- 
feited this  blasted  eye  to  jealousy.  But  a  man  can't  forfeit 
the  name  of  father.  Jane  Alston's  father  I  was,  and  Jane 
Alston's  father  I  am.  She's  sleeping  upstairs  betwixt  linen 
sheets,  as  likely  as  not,  with  her  nose  on  a  soft  pillow,  and 
comfortable  dreams.  I'm  standing  down  here  with  a  blind 
eye  and  broken  victuals  in  my  inside,  but  that  doesn't  alter 
matters  or  make  any  forfeits.  She's  my  own  daughter,  and 
I'm  proud  of  her,  as  any  father  might  be." 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  173 

"  And  how  many  years  is  it,"  asked  the  Doctor,  "  since 
you  took  your  father's  rights  seriously,  and  offered  your 
wife  and  child  a  home?  Come.  Count  them.  You'll  need 
both  your  hands." 

"  Not,"  retorted  the  blind-eyed  man,  "  since  my  wife 
deserted  me  in  the  time  of  trouble  —  when  most  women 
would  have  stood  by  a  man  and  shown  their  grit." 

"  When  you  were  in  prison,"  the  Doctor  reminded  him, 
"  and  left  her  to  face  the  shame  and  consequences." 

"  Yes,  if  you  like  it  better.  When  I  was  in  prison,"  re- 
peated Julian  Alston,  fastening  on  the  word  with  sudden 
ferocity,  as  if  it  had  been  sentient  flesh  and  blood,  and 
biting  it  hungrily.  "  Where  they  would  never  have  had  me 
but  for  her.  You  stand  and  look  at  me  like  a  judge.  But 
let  me  tell  you  there  are  as  good  men  in  prison  as  ever  kept 
out  of  it.  What  is  forgery  but  a  lie  in  ink  —  and  how  many 
thousand  so-called  honest  men  are  there  who  earn  their 
daily  bread  by  the  sweat  of  hard  lying?  You  pick  your 
criminals  as  a  farmer's  wife  picks  fowls  for  market  —  and 
not  always  the  fattest  —  but  all  the  world's  of  the  same 
feather."  He  broke  off  with  a  hoarse  gust  of  breath  that 
was  the  divested  threadbare  overcoat  of  a  laugh.  "  I 
had  three  years  in  the  Jungle,"  he  said,  resuming  speech  in 
the  sourer  tones  for  admission  unfired  by  defensive  wrath, 
"  and  when  I  came  out  I'd  neither  wife  nor  child  to  meet 
me.  You'll  say  I  ought  to  have  looked  for  them,  perhaps, 
with  your  damned  judicial  eyes.  I  did.  But  I'd  a  living  to 
look  for  first,  and  while  I  was  looking  for  that  I  got  this  " — 
he  struck  the  blind  eye  indicatively  with  the  twisted  cap  — 
"  and  that  was  the  end  of  me.  By  thunder,"  he  cried 
fiercely,  "  if  you  want  to  know  what  sort  of  real  stuff  this 
world  is  made  of,  try  it  with  a  blind  eye."  A  kind  of 
passionate  spasm  seamed  his  features  at  this,  with  the  sud- 


174  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

den  remembrance  of  countless  wrongs.  "  You  might  as 
well  live  in  hell.  But  for  the  woman  lying  over  yonder  I 
could  have  starved  six  times  over." 

"  And  with  the  woman  lying  over  yonder,"  the  Doctor 
took  up,  forcing  his  words  through  a  firmer  compression  of 
lip,  "  you  come  to  my  house  to  declare  yourself  Jane  Alston's 
father?" 

"Why  not?"  protested  the  blind-eyed  man.  "It's  the 
truth.  Neither  you  nor  Jane  Alston  can  alter  that,  any 
more  than  you  can  change  this  eye."  It  was  rare  that  he 
referred  to  his  sightless  organ  without  some  hissing  exple- 
tive, some  blasphemy  to  thrust  against  it  and  throw  its 
disfigurement  into  lurid  relief.  He  snatched  a  brief  glance 
round  the  surgery,  and  blew  a  gust  of  breath  through  the 
straggling  hairs  of  his  mustache,  as  though  he  were  taking 
respite  after  a  long  run.  "  To  think,"  he  cried,  "  that  all  the 
years  I've  been  tramping  the  roads  and  breaking  stones  for 
my  night's  shelter  —  she's  been  housed  here  like  a  lady,  snug 
as  snug.  Why,  I've  not  seen  her  since  she  sat  as  a  child  on 
this  knee,  until  she  drove  by  with  you  this  afternoon,  and 
neither  of  you  so  much  as  looked  at  me.  But  I  knew  her  at 
once  —  as  though  any  man  that  had  ever  known  her  mother 
could  mistake  her  —  and  for  a  while  I  was  struck  dumb. 
'  By  thunder,  it's  my  wife,'  I  said,  and  it  was  only  when  I 
reckoned  up  the  years  that  I  knew  it  couldn't  be.  So  I 
asked  the  farmer  over  there  whether  it  would  be  your 
daughter  with  you  in  the  trap,  and  he  said  '  Niece  or  some- 
thing.' '  What's  her  name  ? '  said  I.  He  couldn't  remember 
it  all,  but  he  got  near  enough  for  my  purpose.  '  Is  her 
mother  living  with  her  too  ? '  I  asked  him,  and  he  told  me 
she  was  dead.  It  was  the  first  time  I'd  known  for  a  fact, 
though  I'd  often  suspected  it." 

"  Did  you — "     The  Doctor  hesitated  with  a  tremor  of 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  175 

misgiving  on  the  brink  of  the  question.  "  Did  you  say 
anything  else  to  the  man?" 

"  Not  a  word." 

"  Does  he  guess  that  you  have  the  remotest  interest  in  the 
girl  or  her  mother  ?  " 

"  And  suppose  he  does  ?  Let's  say  for  argument  that  he 
does.  What  then?  Is  there  any  law  to  stop  a  man  from 
speaking  the  truth  about  his  own  kith  and  kin  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not.  If  you  have  told  him,  it  is  out  of  your 
hands  —  and  mine.  In  that  case  — " 

"Well?"  prompted  Alston. 

"  There  is  nothing  more  that  need  concern  you.  I  will 
let  you  out  at  once." 

"  And  suppose  that  he  knows  nothing ;  and  that  nothing 
has  been  said  —  up  to  the  present."  He  had  nearly  over- 
looked the  last  suggestive  qualification,  but  he  recollected  it 
in  time,  and  cast  it  menacefully  into  the  sentence.  "  What 
then?" 

"  Then,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  I  will  ask  you  to  let  me  know 
your  particular  purpose  in  coming  at  midnight  to  tell  me 
this." 

"  Purpose !  "  cried  Alston,  seizing  hold  of  the  word  with  a 
sort  of  rage,  as  though  its  value,  at  this  juncture,  disap- 
pointed him.  "  Is  a  man's  own  daughter  not  purpose 
enough?  Do  you  want  any  better  purpose  than  that? 
Who  are  you,  I'd  like  to  know,  to  get  hold  of  my  daughter 
and  keep  her  in  silk  and  satin  while  I'm  tramping  down 
the  dust  in  other  people's  boots.  How  did  you  come  by 
her?  Where's  your  title  to  her?  for  you  never  got  it  from 
me.  The  farmer  over  yonder  says  you  mean  marrying  her 
as  soon  as  she's  ripe  enough.  Marry  her  and  welcome,  but 
remember  she  has  a  father  to  consider." 

A  slow  flush  crept  over  the  Doctor's  face,  suffused  him  up 


176  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

to  the  temples  and  then  died  suddenly  out,  leaving  his 
countenance  paler  by  the  comparison.  Twice  he  resisted 
the  impulse  to  declare  his  investiture  as  guardian  of  the 
girl  by  the  dead  woman,  and  his  relation  to  Hilda  Brennan 
and  the  disfigured  man.  A  third  time  the  impulse  came 
upon  him,  and  this  third  time  he  gave  it  the  passage  of  his 
lips. 

"  When  you  married  Hilda  Brennan,"  he  said  quietly, 
"  you  took  the  place  that  should  have  belonged  to  me.  I 
owe  you  many  bitter  memories  and  years." 

"  What !  "  cried  Alston,  with  a  sudden  change  of  counte- 
nance in  which  chagrin  seemed  to  vie  with  curiosity.  "  You 
don't  mean  to  say  — " 

"  And  on  her  deathbed,"  the  Doctor  continued,  "  your  wife 
wrote  confiding  her  daughter  to  me." 

"  By  God !  it  was  like  her,"  commented  the  blind-eyed 
man.  "  She  thought  a  damned  sight  more  of  you,  though 
I  never  knew  your  name,  than  she  did  of  me  at  any  time." 

"  So  much,"  the  Doctor  added,  "  for  my  right  and  title. 
During  these  six  years  I  think  I  can  say,  without  hypocrisy, 
that  I  have  kept  the  trust.  All  this  time  I  have  lived  with 
only  one  thought  towards  Jane,  and  that  thought  has  been 
her  welfare.  And  her  welfare  stands  with  me  to-day  before 
self  and  every  other  consideration  in  the  world.  Do  you 
follow  me  ?  " 

"  Follow  you !  "  repeated  Alston,  with  scorn.  "  I'm  ahead 
of  you.  I  know  what  we're  coming  to.  Out  with  it,  quick, 
for  I've  something  to  say  as  well  as  you." 

"  So  far  as  Jane  is  concerned,"  the  Doctor  explained,  "  you 
have  no  existence.  Even  your  name  means  nothing  to  her, 
except  as  the  sole  memory  of  a  father  who  died  almost  as 
soon  as  she  was  born." 

"  As  he  would  have  died,"  broke  out  the  blind-eyed  man, 
"  if  some  people  could  have  had  their  way." 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  177 

"  And  so  far  as  I  can  prevent  it,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  she 
shall  never  know  otherwise.  That  is  to  say,  until  she  is 
safely  past  the  age  when  such  knowledge  might  do  mischief 
to  her  happiness  in  life." 

"  So  that's  your  view  of  things,  is  it?  "  commented  Alston, 
turning  the  cap  round  and  round  in  his  wrathful  fingers  like 
a  grinder's  wheel.  "  I'm  to  be  cut  off  from  my  flesh  and 
blood  so  that  my  own  daughter  can  tilt  her  nose  up  in  your 
blasted  gig  and  drive  about  like  a  lady,  while  her  father's 
drawing  in  the  holes  of  his  belt  over  an  empty  belly,  and 
tramping  a  score  of  miles  between  meal  and  meal.  Where's 
the  justice  in  that?  I  helped  to  make  her;  I've  more  right 
to  her  than  you  or  anybody  else  in  this  hungry  world.  She 
shows  my  blood  in  her  cheeks,  and  it's  my  marrow  that 
stiffens  her  proud  back-bone.  Do  you  think,  now  I've  found 
her,  that  I'll  yoke  the  donkey  and  leave  the  two  of  you  to 
your  driving  and  singing  and  playing,  with  the  secret  stuck 
between  my  teeth  to  chew  when  I'm  hungry?  By  God!  no, 
not  without  a  reason." 

"  Well,"  said  the  Doctor,  calmly ;  "  let's  come  to  that  in 
turn.  Give  me  your  reason." 

The  blind-eyed  man  began  to  revolve  his  cap  under  the 
manipulation  of  his  dirty  fingers,  with  a  horrible  effort  to 
adjust  his  crucial  reason  to  the  Doctor's  temper.  Cupidity 
and  prudence  were  at  war  on  his  countenance  in  a  hundred 
grotesque  engagements,  so  that  his  lips  were  ever  on  the 
point  of  opening,  and  yet  remained  shut.  The  Doctor, 
knowing  the  enervating  use  of  silence  in  such  a  contest, 
leaned  against  the  mantelpiece  with  an  assumption  of  in- 
difference that  he  was  far  from  feeling. 

"  By  God !  "  exclaimed  Alston,  stopping  the  hat's  revolu- 
tion at  last,  with  a  sudden  seizure  of  it  in  both  hands ;  "  but 
it's  a  big  business  this.  To  ask  a  man  to  give  up  such  a 
daughter  as  mine,  just  when  she's  at  a  valuable  age !  I'd 


178  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

like  to  cram  her  down  the  farmer's  throat  next  time  he 
sends  me  into  his  stinking  styes,  and  get  some  of  my  own 
back  for  all  his  broken  victuals.  I  can't  think  things  out," 
he  said  to  the  Doctor.  "  And  that  lamp's  in  my  eye. 
Come;  make  me  an  offer." 

It  was  curious,  and  terrible  too,  to  witness  the  effect  that 
this  neighboring  prospect  of  money  had  upon  him.  Lacking 
it,  he  had  fought  the  Doctor  as  he  might  have  fought  fate, 
without  compromise  or  conciliation ;  dealing  rude  blows,  and 
never  pausing  to  consider  whether  they  were  best  withheld, 
or  whether  they  might  breed  a  worse  rebuff.  Then  he 
seemed  armed  with  a  certain  debased  independence;  per- 
verse as  to  its  logic,  but  still  a  weapon.  Now,  with  the 
gleam  of  money  in  his  eyes  like  a  ray  of  sunshine,  the  fight 
died  out  of  him  all  at  once  as  from  a  blinded  gladiator. 
Under  lucre  the  tramp  came  uppermost,  this  craven  para- 
sitical growth  grafted  on  his  truncated  manhood. 

"  Come.  God  knows  I  don't  want  to  be  hard  on  anybody. 
I've  been  through  trouble  myself  if  any  man  has.  But  damn 
it,  think.  You've  got  a  heart  of  your  own,  for  all  you  look 
at  me  as  if  I  was  muck.  She's  my  own  daughter." 

The  Doctor  moved  from  his  position  against  the  mantel- 
piece, and  the  motion,  coming  after  silence,  struck  the  blind- 
eyed  man  as  ominous. 

"  Look  here,"  he  interrupted  hurriedly ;  "  I'll  tell  you  what 
I'll  do.  Five  hundred  pounds  —  she's  yours  at  that.  You 
shall  have  my  name  to  it.  Let's  have  pen  and  paper." 

The  Doctor  drew  his  heels  to  the  level  of  the  fender's 
curb  and  let  them  down  with  a  decisive  click. 

"  It  is  absurd,"  he  said. 

The  accusation  set  fire  again  to  the  ragged  man's  un- 
disciplined passion. 

"Absurd?"  cried  he.     "But  I'll  show  you  if  it's  absurd. 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  179 

That's  my  price.  I've  given  nearly  as  much  for  a  pair  of 
horses.  Do  you  think  I'll  sell  a  daughter  for  less?" 

"  That  may  be  your  price,"  said  the  Doctor  firmly,  "  but  it 
is  not  mine." 

"  Four  hundred  then,"  substituted  the  blind-eyed  man. 
"  One  hundred  down  and  the  rest  in  six  months.  If  I  take 
less,  may  this  tongue  choke  me !  " 

At  each  proposal  his  face  flashed  with  a  degenerated 
emotion  as  though  all  the  blood  in  his  body  had  coursed  up 
through  the  swollen  veins  in  his  neck. 

"  Listen  to  me,"  said  the  Doctor,  without  replying  to  this 
last  exaction.  "  You  neither  know  the  value  of  the  sums 
you  mention,  nor  what  it  is  that  you  are  asking  this  money 
for.  I  am  not  buying  your  silence  for  a  crime.  You  have 
no  benefits  to  sell  me.  The  utmost  that  lies  in  your  power 
to  do  is  to  go  and  tell  Sunfleet  people  that  Jane  Alston  is 
your  daughter.  Well,  for  the  opinion  of  Sunfleet  people  I 
do  not  care  that."  He  brought  his  hand  from  his  pocket 
to  snap  the  thumb  and  finger  as  an  easy  illustration  of 
indifference  for  the  blind-eyed  man,  and  replaced  it  among 
his  keys  and  silver.  "  Do  you  see  ?  Some  day,  when  Jane 
has  more  experience  to  sustain  her,  she  shall  certainly  know 
the  truth.  But  for  the  present,  and  only  for  the  present,  I 
want  that  truth  kept  from  her.  Now,  during  the  last 
few  years  I  have  had  this  particular  contingency  in  my  mind, 
and  I  have  been  living  to  a  large  extent  prepared  for  it.  If 
you  think  I  have  no  alternative  but  to  purchase  your  silence 
at  an  exorbitant  figure  you  think  wrong.  But  there  are 
other  considerations  involved.  You  say  you  are  Julian 
Alston,  and  I  have  not  the  slightest  reason  to  doubt  you. 
You  are,  whatever  one  may  say  or  think,  Jane  Alston's  own 
father,  and  I  cannot  refuse  to  give  you  some  special  con- 
sideration on  that  ground.  You  have  never  really  known 


i8o  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

your  daughter,  you  have  never  sheltered  her,  or  lent  her 
the  least  care.  In  this  sense,  viewing  the  life  you  have  led 
and  are  leading,  it  would  be  a  mockery  for  you  to  claim  any 
need  of  her,  or  loss  of  her.  But  as  her  father  you  have  cer- 
tainly the  right  to  use  her  name,  if  you  feel  so  disposed,  and 
declare  her  your  daughter.  Nobody  can  prevent  you. 
Therefore,  if  for  any  reason  you  are  asked  to  exercise 
strict  silence  on  this  one  point,  at  least  for  a  while,  it  seems 
reasonable  that  such  silence  should  have  some  recompense. 
On  the  other  hand,  I  must  remind  you,  though  I  don't  think 
the  reminder  will  be  needed,  that  you  have  no  longer  any 
legal  rights  of  parentage  over  your  daughter.  You  have  no 
home  to  offer  her;  your  conduct  makes  you  absolutely  un- 
fit for  guardianship.  Even  if  you  could  produce  the  means 
for  her  support  and  care,  the  law  would  never  sanction 
any  disturbance  of  the  existing  relations  between  Jane  and 
myself.  In  other  words,  your  only  right  is  the  right  to 
reflect  shame  upon  her  by  declaring  yourself  her  father. 
That  is  what  you  understand,  and  what  you  really  mean 
when  you  come  to  me  by  night.  Now,  I  am  going  to  make 
a  proposal,  and  I  should  advise  you  strongly  to  accept  it. 
It  is  this ;  I  am  going  to  offer  you  the  sum  of  one  hundred 
pounds." 

"  No ! "  cried  Julian  Alston,  who  had  been  listening  to 
the  Doctor's  words  with  constant  expressions  of  resentment 
and  rage,  spitting  out  his  expletives  and  twisting  the  cap 
as  though  he  were  trying  to  strangle  his  own  wrath.  "  I 
won't  take  it.  My  pride's  worth  more  than  that." 

"  A  hundred  pounds,"  the  Doctor  said  again,  "  payable 
by  installments  of  five  pounds  a  month." 

"  Installments !  "  repeated  the  blind-eyed  man.  "  Do  you 
think  the  father  of  a  girl  like  mine  will  take  your  rotten 
poor-law  relief?  Just  because  of  this  eye,"  and  he  lashed  at 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  181 

it  with  his  cap,  "  you  think  he'll  thank  you  for  anything  you 
may  throw  at  him.  But,  by  thunder  —  !  "  he  flung  out  the 
words  as  though  they  were  the  preface  to  a  deeper  threat. 
".  .  .  And  how  much  down  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Not  a  penny  until  you  are  clear  of  this  place.  The  less 
you  carry  in  your  pocket  the  better  it  will  be  for  you,  and 
for  us  all.  For  understand,  should  the  slightest  whisper  of 
what  is  known  only  to  us  two  get  abroad,  your  payments 
cease  at  once." 

"  Not  a  penny  ? "  said  Julian  Alston.  "  Come,  a  five- 
pound  note,"  he  urged,  in  his  vagrant's  tone  of  cajolery. 
"  You'll  never  miss  it,  and  God  knows  it  will  bless  me  — 
with  the  woman  over  yonder  to  think  of.  Look  at  this 
coat,"  he  cried.  He  took  hold  of  the  worn  fabric  of  his 
left  sleeve  with  the  fingers  of  the  right  hand  and  rolled  it 
between  them,  as  though  to  demonstrate  by  this  action  the 
rottenness  of  the  texture.  "  You're  a  doctor,  and  you 
should  know.  Is  this  the  sort  of  coat  to  keep  a  man  dry, 
or  turn  a  north-east  wind  from  his  bones,  with  nothing  but 
a  waistcoat  and  a  cotton  shirt  against  his  skin  ?  "  He  read 
unshaken  purpose  in  the  Doctor's  face  and  said :  "  Three 
pounds  —  two  pounds.  Damn  it !  half-a-crown  to  cheer  the 
heart  in  my  hand.  It's  never  held  anything  bigger  than  a 
shilling  this  last  six  weeks."  Still  the  Doctor's  brow  re- 
corded the  same  decree.  "  By  thunder !  "  he  snarled,  smit- 
ing the  cap  across  his  outstretched  left  hand ;  "  I've  a  good 
mind  to  say  five  hundred  again,  take  it  or  leave  it,  and 
keep  my  word." 

"  As  soon  as  you  are  fifty  miles  away  from  Sunfleet,"  the 
Doctor  took  up,  without  any  reference  to  this  last  outburst, 
"  you  can  write  me  your  address,  and  I  will  send  you  at  once 
a  remittance  for  five  pounds.  From  that  time,  provided 
you  never  come  any  nearer  Sunfleet,  and  nothing  of  all  this 


182  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

transpires  here,  you  will  receive  your  five  pounds  regularly 
on  the  first  of  each  month  to  such  address  as  you  may  give 
me.  Is  that  clear  to  you  ?  " 

Judging  by  Julian  Alston's  answer  the  meaning  was 
perfectly  clear. 

"  One  word  more,"  said  the  Doctor.  "  I  don't  need  to  be 
told  that  you  have  an  enemy  in  drink.  That  is  why  I  decline 
to  contribute  a  single  penny  towards  your  weakness  so  long 
as  you  stay  in  Sunfleet.  You  and  I  are  the  only  people  in 
the  world  through  whom  certain  facts  can  leak  out.  Should 
they  leak  out  in  any  way  to  reach  my  ears,  then  your  remit- 
tances will  cease  without  further  notice.  In  that  case  you 
can  follow  your  own  bent.  On  the  other  hand,  should  there 
be  no  question  of  this,  and  should  you  show  the  slightest 
disposition  to  use  this  money  well,  and  try  and  reclaim  your- 
self before  it  is  too  late,  then  I  might  be  willing  to  help  you 
still  further  for  Jane's  sake.  But  that  depends  entirely  on 
yourself." 

The  dawn  was  creeping  over  the  gray  sky,  and  the  cocks 
were  crowing  from  a  dozen  perches  when  this  strange  inter- 
view came  to  a  close,  and  admonishing  his  visitor  to  caution, 
the  Doctor  let  Jane  Alston's  father  slide  out  into  the  morn- 
ing. It  was  characteristic  of  the  blind-eyed  man  that  he 
quitted  the  house  as  though  he  bore  it  a  grudge,  and  spat  on 
to  the  gravel,  once  beyond  the  door,  with  all  the  venom  for 
a  curse.  Through  the  bars  of  perversity  that  degradation 
had  checkered  across  his  outlook,  darkening  his  mind  and 
casting  shadows  over  every  thought  within,  he  viewed  these 
hundred  pounds  as  a  wounded  fox  might  view  the  fangs  of 
a  trap  in  which  its  bleeding  paws  had  once  been  imprisoned. 
The  silence  imposed  upon  him  by  the  compact  seemed  to  his 
morose  imagination  like  a  padlock  riveted  on  his  jaw;  and 
as  he  slunk  homeward,  with  his  arms  nipped  together,  and 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  183 

each  hand  thrust  in  the  opening  of  its  fellow's  sleeve  for 
warmth  against  the  shivering  chillness  of  dawn,  he  picked 
over  the  interview  with  all  the  rogue's  dishonesty  to  see  if 
it  might  not  yield  some  hidden  point  of  value  overlooked. 


XXIII 

A  FORTNIGHT  has  slipped  by.  The  blind-eyed  man 
and  the  gypsy  woman,  and  the  child  and  the  boy  and 
the  yellow  kitten  are  things  of  the  past.  The  hens  scratch 
in  the  straw  where  the  queen-mother  bore  her  son ;  there 
are  some  rags  blowing  here  and  there,  gathering  feathers 
and  mushroom  peelings  as  they  roll,  that  once  helped  to 
make  these  by-gone  wanderers  a  shelter;  and  there  is  a 
charred  circle  with  a  gray  core  of  ash  bitten  into  the  grass 
before  the  cart-shed,  where  their  fire  burned,  but  that  is 
all.  No  perambulators  litter  Pridgeon's  gate,  and  Sunfleet 
children  no  longer  hang  upon  his  fence-rails  to  mark  the 
doings  of  the  strange  folk  within  the  charmed  inclosure;  old 
Stebbing  finds  no  socks  or  knitted  bonnets  to  pick  up  and 
offer  at  various  Sunfleet  doors  on  his  way  home ;  and  moth- 
ers, distracted  by  clamorous  progeny,  begin  to  forget  the  once 
effective  formula,  "  Hush,  or  I'll  gan  straightaways  and  fetch 
Blindy  to  you,  and  bid  him  bring  yon  bag."  For  the  harvest 
is  coming  to  its  height,  and  at  such  a  time  in  Sunfleet,  even 
gypsies  are  forgotten. 

And  Jane  is  away  too,  and  it  is  not  quite  known  when  she 
will  come  back.  On  the  very  day  succeeding  the  Doctor's 
midnight  interview  with  the  blind-eyed  man,  there  came  a 
letter  from  Bertha,  inviting  her  into  Surrey ;  and  the  Doctor 
saw  the  extended  hand  of  providence,  and  shook  it  with  a 
fervor  that  astonished  Jane,  so  that  she  asked  him :  "  Are 
you  anxious  to  be  rid  of  me,  Numphy  ?  "  They  were  at  the 
breakfast-table  at  the  time,  and  Jane  stroked  the  crumbs 
engagingly  on  the  cloth  by  her  side  with  the  cushions  of  her 

184 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  185 

supple  fingers,  and  the  smallest  motion  of  wrist,  in  the  way 
she  had ;  and  her  blue  eyes  sparkled  like  porcelain,  and 
the  Doctor  nipped  his  leg  fiercely  under  the  table  and  told 
her  these  falsehoods.  "  I  would  like  to  see  more  roses  in 
your  cheek,  Jane  " —  though  heaven  knows  he  never  loved 
high  color  in  woman.  "  For  some  time  I  have  noticed  how 
pale  you  look.  Get  away  at  once.  The  change  will  do  you 
good."  And  Jane  said,  What  was  she  to  go  in?  She  had 
not  a  single  frock  that  Bertha  had  never  seen ;  and  only  four 
hats  and  a  best  one  for  Sundays.  But  she  made  these  do  in 
the  end,  and  the  groom  brought  round  the  Raleigh,  with  an 
extra  somersault  glinting  in  the  spokes;  and  Jane's  trunk 
was  slid  solemnly  under  the  seat  —  to  the  Doctor's  diseased 
imagination  like  a  coffin;  and  Jane  and  the  Doctor  drove 
away  to  Peterwick  with  the  groom  behind  them,  on  the 
brightest  day  imaginable ;  and  at  Peterwick  a  hateful  train 
gushed  into  the  station,  full  of  breathing  and  volubility  like 
a  dowager  late  for  dinner,  claiming  Jane's  attention  as 
though  it  were  a  right ;  and  Jarge  Stebbing  beat  frenzy  into 
the  blue  sky  with  his  brass  bell ;  and  knocked  Jane's  trunk 
out  of  time  at  the  first  round,  and  into  the  guard's  van  at  the 
second,  with  two  scratches  in  the  leather;  and  the  guard 
blew  a  horrid  melancholy  whistle,  that  choked  itself  over  a 
pea  in  the  end ;  and  the  waving  hand  and  handkerchief  — 
that  constituted  the  last  vestiges  of  Jane  —  were  drawn  away 
from  the  Doctor  by  the  relentless  forces  of  steam;  and  the 
red  guard's  van  shrunk  down  to  the  size  of  the  ace  of  hearts ; 
and  the  gates  clashed  across  the  heat-palpitating  lines;  and 
the  Doctor  took  off  his  straw  hat  and  passed  a  handkerchief 
over  his  forehead  —  for  the  day  was  damnably  hot ;  and  the 
stationmaster  put  on  his  special  first-class  smile  and  said : 
"  Now  this  is  grand  weather,  Doctor,"  and  the  Doctor  an- 
swered :  "  I  think  we  shall  have  a  storm."  For  to  him  it 
looked  like  it.  Possibly  two.  He  drove  back  again  to 


186  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

Sunfleet  with  a  heart  as  heavy  as  Jane's  trunk,  but  yet 
lightened  with  an  inexpressible  sense  of  relief  and  triumph 
too,  to  think  that  now  Jane  was  safely  out  of  the  zone  of 
danger,  where  there  could  be  no  fear  of  any  chance  en- 
counter with  the  blind-eyed  man,  or  contact,  unprepared, 
with  some  horrid  leakage  of  the  truth.  For  with  such  a 
cracked  receptacle  of  secrecy  as  Julian  Alston,  there  was 
always  the  dread  that  not  even  gold  could  seal  the  fissure 
in  his  honesty,  and  that  the  facts  might  escape  from  him  in 
surreptitious  morbid  tricklings  of  pride.  Each  day,  there- 
fore, the  Doctor  paid  his  visit  to  the  gypsy  woman;  not  for 
her  actual  necessities,  or  the  enhancement  of  his  charitable 
name,  but  for  the  opportunity  of  tightening  the  moral  tourni- 
quet upon  Julian  Alston's  silence ;  hating  himself  every  time 
he  did  so,  for  the  need  of  diplomacy  in  such  a  quarter.  Not 
until  the  donkey's  plodding  feet  were  patterned  along  the 
Sunfleet  dust  towards  Peterwick,  threaded  like  precise 
stitches  between  the  wobbling  pleats  of  the  cart-wheels,  did 
he  draw  his  breath.  The  third  day  following  the  blind-eyed 
man's  departure  brought  the  looked-for  envelope;  wonder- 
fully dirty,  as  might  be  expected.  The  inscription,  de- 
spite a  certain  cursiveness  of  hand,  consorted  in  its  de- 
generacy with  all  else  pertaining  to  Julian  Alston,  as  though 
he  were  even  forgetting  the  honest  manipulation  of  the  pen. 
On  a  curt  quarter-sheet  of  note-paper  he  gave  the  address, 
without  the  slightest  further  word  of  reference  to  their  un- 
derstanding, and  the  Doctor  drove  the  same  afternoon  to 
Dimmlesea  and  consigned  by  post  the  first  installment  of 
this  salary  of  silence.  He  dropped  it  into  the  yawning 
mouth  of  the  postbox,  as  though  he  were  administering  a 
sleeping  draft  to  destiny,  and  a  sort  of  calm  seemed  to  ensue 
on  a  sudden.  It  might  veritably  have  been  that  destiny  was 
beginning  to  experience  the  effect  of  this  opiate.  Now  the 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  187 

Doctor  could  dedicate  his  thoughts  more  tranquilly  to  Jane ; 
could  sip  Jane's  coming  through  the  long  keen  straws  of 
anticipation,  like  a  cool  summer  drink.  But  Jane  is  not  so 
easy  to  re-absorb.  She  writes  that  she  has  been  pressed  to 
stay  still  another  fortnight.  She  wants  to  bring  back  some 
real  rosy  cheeks  with  her  when  she  does  come.  She  knows 
Numphy  will  spare  her  for  that.  Yes,  Numphy  will  spare 
her  for  that.  He  writes  her  a  cheery  letter,  and  then  settles 
down  to  the  splendid  misery  of  missing  her. 

And  heavens,  how  splendidly  he  misses  her!  The  silent 
yellow  keys  of  the  old  piano  slumber  over  their  past  like 
gravestones  in  a  crowded  churchyard,  sealing  memories.  He 
touches  them  now  and  again  with  a  pious  finger,  and  lo !  a 
ghost  rises  up  quivering,  and  seeks  the  ceiling,  so  that  he 
shrinks,  and  lets  down  the  lid.  Who  would  believe  that, 
amid  these  seeming  sepulchers  of  departed  melody,  the  girl's 
fingers  have  threaded  their  lightsome  way,  and  that  these 
are  not  tombstones,  but  faded  mosaics  in  the  vestibule  of 
music?  It  is  incredible  the  difference  in  this  house  by  night 
when,  after  dinner,  her  voice  has  been  wont  to  fill  its  spaces 
with  living  song,  so  that  never  did  Dendy  kindle  pipe  and 
digest  his  meals  more  melodiously.  Everything  talks  of  her ; 
every  scent  recalls  her ;  every  sky  is  blue  with  her.  Wherever 
the  Doctor  drives  he  passes  through  nature's  symbols  for 
Jane.  On  the  wafted  chirrup  of  reapers  she  is  borne  to  him. 
When  the  great  ink-clouds  roll  up  over  the  Hun,  and  the 
closeness  of  the  atmosphere  becomes  almost  corporeal,  like  a 
hot  face ;  and  drops  of  warm  rain  slide  down  it  to  earth,  as 
though  they  were  trickles  of  sweat ;  and  the  elemental  giant 
mutters  threats  of  thunder  in  his  sullen  throat  over  Sunfleet 
—  Jane  is  there  too.  Often  have  she  and  the  Doctor  joined 
hands  and  made  a  laughing  dash  for  home  beneath  such 
skies,  while  the  storm,  like  a  drunken  Irishman  outside  the 


188  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

Sunfleet  inn,  rocks  in  his  boots  and  growls  formidable  inde- 
cision whether  he  shall  be  thunderously  drunker  still,  or 
pass  on. 

Absence  serves  as  a  primer  to  the  heart.  Through  it  we 
often  learn  our  alphabet  for  the  reading  of  those  subtler 
emotions  in  the  crowded  small  print  of  life.  The  big  black 
capitals  of  loneliness,  those  spacious  A's  and  B's  and  C's  of 
solitude  that  the  heart  pores  over  in  its  deserted  hours,  lead 
to  the  deeper  lections  of  self-knowledge;  with  their  deeper 
wisdom,  if  perchance  not  deeper  comfort  —  and  in  these  days 
the  Sunfleet  Doctor  becomes  a  close  abecedarian;  is  ever 
poring  over  the  big  book  of  the  Bosom. 

Jane  is  not  a  great  correspondent,  though  heaven  knows,  a 
very  dear  one.  She  is  just  beginning  to  write  with  a  J  pen 
—  on  the  same  principle  that  impels  boyhood  to  twopenny 
cigars  —  and  makes  her  characters  very  large  and  reckless,  as 
though  they  were  club-room  men,  all  leg,  sprawling  in  lounge 
chairs;  and  she  takes  three  dips  for  her  name,  and  the 
Doctor  can  always  tell  when  she  signs  this,  for  it  makes  the 
sound  of  a  skating  rink,  and  he  laughs  aloud  to  hear  her,  and 
says :  "  Do  it  again,  Jane,  and  don't  forget  the  tongue." 
Which  makes  Jane  somewhat  dignified  when  this  occurs 
twice  at  one  sitting.  Chiefly  she  sends  him  picture  post- 
cards, bearing  the  briefest  of  communications,  mostly  in  the 
interrogative.  "  How  do  you  like  this  church  ? "  "  Does 
this  place  remind  you  of  Peterwick  ?  "  "  Am  having  a  splen- 
did time.  Heaps  of  love."  Regarded  as  intelligence,  or  as 
pictures,  such  cards  are  wretched.  Viewed  as  emanations  of 
Jane,  they  are  delightful.  If  he  reads  them  once,  he  reads 
them  a  dozen  times.  Nay,  a  hundred  times.  They  are  as 
brief  as  kisses,  and  yet,  somehow,  as  lasting ;  kisses  delivered 
with  an  impulsive  bump,  in  frantic  haste ;  clutched  at  and 
gone  —  for  if  life  drags  here  in  Sunfleet  with  the  Doctor,  it 
Mies  breakneck  with  Jane.  She  is  always  in  a  hurry;  just 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  189 

going  somewhere,  or  just  back  from  somewhere.  Somebody 
has  just  arrived.  Bertha  has  just  called  her.  But  she  says 
she  is  frightfully  happy,  and  there  is  nothing  to  show  she 
would  rather  be  in  Sunfleet.  Nay.  So  happy  that  there 
comes  a  second  letter  which  the  Doctor  opens  with  trepida- 
tion for  the  worst.  Yes.  She  and  Bertha  have  been  invited 
down  to  Folkestone,  to  stay  with  Bertha's  Aunt  Mary. 

"  Lors,  sir !  "  exclaims  Hester,  when  the  Doctor  breaks  the 
intelligence.  "  Do  you  think  Miss  Jane's  ever  coming 
back?" 

Anne  takes  the  announcement  in  a  darker  mood,  for  she 
has  been  secretly  promising  herself  Jane's  return  at  the  end 
of  this  week. 

"  Some  day,"  she  tells  the  Doctor  ominously,  "  she'll  be 
stopping  away  for  good,  so  I  suppose  we'd  best  get  used  to 
it.  Do  you  think  she  means  to  bide  single  all  her  days  and 
live  i'  Sunfleet.  Not  natural.  We  shall  be  hearing  some- 
thing yet." 

He  laughs :  "  Do  you  think  so,  Anne  ? "  But  almost 
before  she  is  gone  his  face  flushes  and  then  grows  white, 
and  the  laugh  without  transition  sinks  its  lines  deep  into 
his  countenance  and  assumes  almost  the  bitten  intensity  for 
pain. 

For  the  Sunfleet  doctor  is  no  longer  the  thing  he  seems. 
Make  a  bonfire  of  these  pretentious  documents  of  duty ;  burn 
all  these  pious  forgeries  of  guardianship  to  ash.  Strip  him 
of  the  saintly  disinterested  robes  he  has  been  wearing  in  the 
past;  those  righteous  vestments  of  parental  care.  From 
henceforth  he  has  no  right  to  them.  He  is  not  any  more  a 
parent.  The  blue-eyed  daughter  of  Hilda  Brennan,  who 
crept  into  this  room  six  years  ago,  to  spill  her  tears  uncom- 
forted  before  the  closed  doors  of  his  embittered  heart  has 
heaped  on  his  head  a  fine  revenge.  He  loves  her. 

That   second   spotted   missive    from   the   blind-eyed   man, 


190  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

sinister,  unhealthy,  causes  him  no  tremor.  He  disengages 
the  curt  address,  and  consigns  the  second  fee  for  silence. 
The  blind-eyed  man,  indeed,  becomes  in  some  sort  an  in- 
centive to  the  nobler  parts  of  love ;  a  spur  to  championship 
and  chivalry;  a  purge  to  those  impurer  elements  of  worldly 
interest  that  choke  so  many  passions.  For,  to  the  Doctor, 
Jane  is  only  made  more  dear  by  such  a  shadow  threatening 
her;  his  defensive  love  dissevers  her  from  every  mortal  tie 
or  ligament,  so  that  in  their  supreme  detachment  she  is 
become  divine.  Nothing,  he  feels,  can  add  to;  nothing 
detract  from  her  intrinsic  worth.  She  is  Jane.  Just  Jane 
—  and  so  much  Jane  —  unbounded  by  everything  but  the 
stars;  herself  one  of  them,  one  of  the  sisterhood  of  pale 
celestial  singers  who  stand  before  the  curtain  of  the  night 
with  scrolls  in  their  lily-white  hands,  and  fill  life's  void  with 
music. 


XXIV 

SEPTEMBER,  like  a  dusky  queen,  draws  round  her 
shoulders  the  rare-wrought  mantle  of  changing  leaf, 
whose  every  fold  diffuses  the  scent  of  sweet  decay;  sighs 
with  a  warm  breath  of  ripening  apples  and  turns  upon 
her  heel.  The  harvest  is  all  but  over.  Belated  wagons  may 
be  met,  creaking  homeward  beneath  brown  loads  of  peas ;  and 
there  are  stooks  of  somber  beans  still  standing,  starred  with 
the  downy  heads  of  bonded  swine  thistle.  But  all  the  grain 
is  gathered,  and  pallid  carpets  of  ribbed  stubble  spread  away 
in  each  direction  to  the  horizon,  where,  afar,  they  gleam  with 
a  chalky  whiteness,  showing  the  sun's  shadows  on  them 
like  the  traceries  of  some  fine  pencil.  Great  yellow  pikes 
ripen  on  their  steddles  in  every  stackgarth,  while  already  the 
thatcher  rears  his  form  into  the  gray-blue  sky  at  the  end  of 
a  thirty-spell  stee,  with  sacking  round  his  knees  to  defend 
him  from  the  stabbing  stalks,  and  weaves  industrious  webs 
of  thatch  against  the  wind  and  rain.  There  comes  a  deeper 
throb  into  the  air,  that  is  not  of  the  reaper;  a  looser  pulse 
that  beats  from  dawn  till  dusk,  and  the  sooty  haze  lingering 
over  distant  farmsteads  denotes  that  the  threshing  has  be- 
gun. 

The  roadways  show  the  great  diagonal  treads  of  the 
traction-engine's  wheels,  on  either  side  of  the  track  of  scat- 
tered cinders  that  mark  the  monster's  passage.  Gates  that 
were  the  object  of  a  pious  care  some  days  ago,  are  left  with 
drunken  recklessness  ajar,  and  will  not  close  again  until  the 
plow  has  polished  his  share  in  the  stubble,  and  the  drill 
and  harrow  have  consecrated  these  slumbering  acres  to  an- 

191 


192  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

other  year  of  service.  There  is  talk  of  harvest  festivals  and 
Hunmouth  Fair.  And  Jane  comes  home  at  last,  bringing 
Bertha  with  her  —  for  Bertha  is  to  stay  at  the  vicarage  now 
until  Christmas,  and  keep  her  uncle  Horace  company  —  and 
Berkeley  is  to  follow  before  long,  on  purpose  to  preach  the 
special  harvest  sermon;  and  the  Doctor  meets  both  girls  in 
Hunmouth,  as  he  happens  to  have  business  there  that  day 
(which  is  not  true),  and  from  Peterwick  they  drive  home  in 
a  soft  October  mist;  and  life  seems  to  kindle  on  a  sudden 
at  the  sight  of  Jane,  as  a  smoldering  taper  leaps  into  light 
at  the  first  kiss  of  flame. 

A  taller  Jane.  More  beautiful;  dearer,  even,  than  he  had 
dreamed;  a  thousand  times  more  to  be  desired  and  dreaded. 
All  this  sojourn  in  the  south,  this  mingling  with  the  kinsfolk 
of  the  mighty,  seems  to  be  incorporated  in  her  very  essence. 
Her  beauty,  realized,  dismays  him.  His  heart  flags  under 
this  opulence  of  charm,  like  a  fire  too  generously  replenished 
all  at  once.  Over  her  unaffected  freedom  seems  spread  a 
subtle  quality,  like  a  fine  net,  that  makes  as  though  to  gather 
every  movement  of  her  body  into  the  invisible  meshes  of  the 
unattainable.  Her  very  laughter,  when  her  dear  face  is  held 
so  friendly  close  to  his,  and  the  blue  eyes  thrill  like  stars  — 
causes  the  flesh  of  aspiration  to  creep;  sends  a  fine  shiver 
over  his  hopes.  The  music  of  this  symphony  of  graces,  he 
feels  and  fears,  is  not  for  him. 

And  yet,  how  dear  and  how  unchanged  she  is  to  him. 
Beneath  this  atmospheric  isolating  beauty,  in  which  seem  to 
lurk  a  myriad  chill  currents  for  quelling  hope,  her  being 
appears  to  be  fed  from  the  warmest  springs  of  memory  and 
feeling.  She  flies  back  to  the  old  home  like  a  bird  delayed 
to  its  nest,  has  a  thousand  questions  to  anticipate  her  own 
arrival.  The  train  cannot  steam  too  quickly  for  her;  the 
brown  mare  cannot  pound  the  road  too  vehemently  with  her 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  193 

ringing  bright  shoes.  And  when  at  last  they  reach  the  red- 
brick house,  and  the  groom  drives  Bertha  forward  through 
the  dusk  to  the  vicarage,  and  Jane  and  the  Doctor  enter  the 
old  familiar  hall,  she  turns  upon  him  with  the  swift  smile 
that  is  twin-sister  to  tears,  and  says :  "  After  all  ... 
it's  a  dear  old  place,  Numphy." 

She  has  the  true  woman's  eye,  that  travel  and  lapse  of 
time  only  make  into  a  preciser  instrument  for  remembering 
familiar  things,  and  detecting  the  subtlest  element  of  change 
in  them.  She  notes  at  once  the  new  darn  in  the  stair-carpet 
that  she  had  long  anticipated,  and  known  inevitable.  Her 
eye,  shooting  its  glances,  never  fires  a  blank.  Even  in  the 
profusion  of  first  greetings  it  is  taking  quick  double-barrelled 
aims  to  the  right  and  left,  like  a  practiced  sportsman,  that 
never  misses  his  mark. 

"  So  you've  had  the  door  looked  to,  Numphy."  "  Hester, 
there's  a  cobweb  over  the  cornice."  "  Who  broke  the  lamp- 
shade ? "  Nor  does  she  count  on  looks  alone  to  tell  her  what 
degrees  of  change  these  weeks  have  wrought.  She  has  a 
woman's  scent  to  supplement  her  eyes;  a  keen  instinct  that 
can  run  along  the  imperceptible  fine  thread  of  an  odor,  like 
some  tiny  web-spinner,  ascertain  the  source  of  the  vibration 
and  be  back  again  without  the  least  betrayal  of  the  journey 
or  break  in  her  speech.  Even  through  the  flower-perfumed 
hall,  and  the  faint  clinging  odor  of  warm  oil  that  the  lamp 
diffuses,  she  goes  by  scent  into  the  kitchen  and  discovers 
the  roast  duck  and  the  wreathed  acidity  of  apple-sauce,  and 
the  mild  olfactory  resignation  of  sage  and  onions  —  that 
pious  accompaniment  to  the  dish,  that  wraps  the  spurting 
crackling  bird  in  a  chastened  vestiture  like  widow's  weeds. 
She  knows  too,  that  somewhere  in  the  house  there  are  floors 
still  damp  to  recent  scrubbing,  and  cries :  "  Why !  Which- 
ever ceiling  have  you  been  white-washing,  Anne  ? "  To 
13 


194  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

which  Anne  makes  rejoinder :  "  There !  I  said  so.  What's 
use  o'  trying  to  gie  anybody  a  bit  of  surprise !  I  wanted  you 
to  see  it  first,  not  gan  smell  it." 

Nothing  escapes  her  notice  or  her  memory.  Beneath  the 
sweep  of  illusory  grandeur,  this  disconcerting  dignity  of 
movement  and  of  robe,  it  is  still  the  old  Jane  come  back  into 
her  inheritance;  taking  up  the  threads  of  interrupted  Sun- 
fleet  life  with  the  fingers  of  affectionate  enthusiasm.  She 
moves  detached  in  the  new  atmosphere  of  fashion  and  dis- 
tant places  and  strange  people  that  envelops  her,  and  lends  a 
preciousness  to  the  old  charm  like  some  piece  of  family  por- 
celain seen  for  the  first  time  through  protective  panes  of 
glass;  yet  all  the  while  she  is  trying  to  draw  near  to  the 
house's  very  bosom,  as  a  child  that  will  not  be  content  with 
the  first  kiss,  but  yearns  ever  to  find  some  nearer  passage- 
way to  love.  What  will  serve  but  she  must  enter  all  the 
sitting-rooms  in  turn,  whilst  Numphy  bears  the  lamp,  as  if 
she  would  assure  her  heart  its  anchorage  is  safe,  and  that  by 
these  restless  later  weeks  she  has  been  dragged  in  nowise 
from  her  cherished  moorings.  She  must  see  the  kitchens  too, 
and  take  a  peep  into  the  surgery  —  all  in  her  traveling  coat, 
with  her  two  gloves  alternately  blown  to  a  quivering  sem- 
blance of  vitality  and  drawn  caressingly  fine  through  a  hand 
—  and  coax  a  chord  from  the  old  piano's  yellow  keys  with 
roguish  fingers,  laughing  over  the  sound  to  Numphy  as  if 
the  brief  triad  were  a  treasured  secret  shared  by  themselves 
alone.  Nay,  in  this  very  room  before  they  leave  it,  whose 
ceiling  winks  with  the  rosy  comfortable  firelight  from  the  big 
grate,  where  a  fire  has  been  kindled  for  her  welcome,  and 
partly,  too,  in  case  she  may  feel  a  disposition  to  sing  "  Love, 
I  will  love  You  alway,"  before  retiring  to  bed  (though  Num- 
phy would  not  seek  this  if  she  is  really  tired ;  and  of  course 
she  has  had  a  long  journey;  but  still  .  .  .)  in  this  room 
consecrated  to  memories  of  Miss  Perritt  and  pen-nibs,  and  at- 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  195 

lases  and  rulers,  and  arithmetic  and  rebellions,  she  turns 
suddenly  towards  him  with  the  old  full-hearted  impulsive- 
ness, and  lays  her  warm  lips  laughingly  on  his  cheeks  before 
he  can  divine  the  meaning  of  the  movement,  with  her  two 
hands  on  his  shoulders,  and  says  — 

"  Dear  old  Numphy.  How  well  you  are  looking.  You 
don't  know  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you.  It  does  seem  an  age 
since  I  went  away." 

That  kiss,  distilled,  coursed  through  the  secret  channels  of 
his  love  like  a  drop  of  exquisite  swift  poison ;  with  a  potent 
sweetness  that  seemed  to  search  out  his  very  heart  to  slay  it. 
Sure,  two  such  tokens  must  have  killed  discretion  and  lib- 
erated the  soul  of  truth  without  ado.  Those  earlier  public 
kisses,  bestowed  dutifully  upon  his  tendered  cheek  as  Jane 
descended  from  the  railway  carriage  door  in  Hunmouth  were 
but  ministers  of  pride,  heightening  his  color  and  causing 
him  to  covet  more  witnesses  to  his  glory.  But  this  one 
quick  kiss  in  its  reaction  woke  all  the  lover  in  him.  He  had 
the  thought  to  take  her  in  his  arms  and  tell  her  there  this 
Numphy  was  another  Numphy;  that  her  kisses  now  were 
other  kisses  —  half  of  heaven  and  half  of  hell;  balm  and  a 
burning  fire;  that  he  loved  her  and  could  not  live  without 
her  love.  But  almost  as  it  grew  to  accomplishment  he  cast 
the  thought  behind  him.  Was  he  so  unsure  of  her  that  he 
must  needs  leap  at  her  love  as  a  dog  jumps  to  snatch  food 
from  the  hand  that  bears  it?  No,  no.  It  was  the  greed  of 
apprehension,  not  the  desire  of  love,  that  sought  to  precipi- 
tate itself  in  words.  He  said,  in  place  of  it  "  But  what  am 
I  thinking  of,  Jane !  You  must  be  as  hungry  as  a  crocodile 
after  your  long  journey.  Let's  go  to  dinner  at  once.  I'm 
sure  Anne  will  have  prepared  something  good  for  you." 

"Yes.  Roast  duck,"  said  Jane.  "And  a  little  fish. 
Sha'n't  I  enjoy  it!" 

And  as  soon  as  Jane  was  ready  they  took  their  places, 


196  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

these  two,  and  embarked  upon  the  meal.  More  blessed  than 
sanctus  bell  was  the  silver  bangle-music  at  her  wrists;  silent 
so  long,  and  O!  so  keenly  missed.  Even  her  laughter 
seemed  to  have  shed  its  material  particles  of  mirth  this 
night,  and  to  assume  the  pure  character  of  an  element  divine, 
whose  merriment  was  as  the  twinkling  of  stars  in  clear 
ether ;  a  mirth  of  the  soul,  that  is  the  supreme  high  harmonic 
of  happiness,  like  flageolets  on  the  fiddle ;  goodness  of  heart 
thrilling  under  the  light  finger  of  gratitude  to  supertones 
of  immortal  gladness.  Her  face,  animated  to  its  tireless 
sequence  of  expression,  yet  preserved,  for  him,  a  certain 
fundamental  gravity,  almost  sublime;  the  changes  of  coun- 
tenance were  but  as  the  passing  play  of  lights  upon  an 
altarpiece,  that  leave  the  underlying  truth  or  type  unaltered. 

She  had  much  to  tell  him,  and  all  this  new  experience 
poured  out  in  the  familiar  vivacious  voice  magnetized  his 
attention  like  the  plashing  of  a  fountain.  For  Jane's  eye 
was  a  born  traveler,  taking  advantage  of  every  opportunity 
for  busy  excursions;  and  Jane's  tongue  was  a  veritable 
Froissart. 

And  when  they  had  talked  the  dinner  to  an  end,  they 
laughed  their  way  into  the  drawing-room,  and  there  Jane 
played  and  sang  to  him  before  she  went  to  bed,  including 
"  Love,  I  will  love  You  alway  "  (that  Mrs.  Penterton  Ashley 
admired  so  much)  and  other  songs  all  fraught  with  mem- 
ories of  the  past,  so  that  each  time  she  sang  them  did  but 
distill  another  drop  of  quivering  happiness  to  add  to  their 
cherished  store;  and  the  Doctor  sat  in  the  deep  chair  and 
listened,  while  the  spirit  of  him  hovered  over  the  girl's  soft 
shoulders,  kissing  with  silent  lips  the  slim  white  neck  that 
bent  in  song,  and  coveting  the  moment  when  it  might 
descend  at  last  and  fold  her  with  all  her  melodies  into  the 

bosom  of  his  love. 

********* 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  197 

And  now  the  Doctor's  life,  reduced  during  the  dry 
weeks  of  Jane's  absence  to  a  trickling  channel  of  ex- 
istence, like  a  stream  in  summer  draught,  was  re-fed  all 
at  once  from  its  suspended  tributaries  of  happiness,  and 
flowed  forward  once  more  with  a  strong  and  buoyant  cur- 
rent. The  vicarage  and  the  big  brick  house  were  no  longer 
drawn  close  by  bonds  of  mere  masculine  loneliness,  but 
by  vital  chains  of  girlish  laughter  that  garlanded  these 
two  homes  and  wove  a  magic  round  them.  There  was 
croquet  on  the  Doctor's  lawn,  and  tennis ;  and  tea  at  both 
houses,  and  music  at  the  vicar's  on  an  evening  —  where  Jane 
and  the  Doctor  generally  wended  their  way  after  dinner,  for 
the  vicar  was  now  no  longer  partial  to  the  October  mists 
that  are  wont  to  roll  up  from  sea  and  Hun,  and  lie  upon  the 
land  at  this  time  of  the  year,  vast  and  impregnable,  filling 
all  the  interstices  of  hedge  and  tree,  and  dripping  dismally 
from  the  beaded  branches  along  with  dying  leaves  and 
splitting  chestnuts.  And  so  by  daily  stages  we  are  brought 
in  the  second  week  succeeding  Jane's  return  to  the  fateful 
Harvest  Festival,  and  both  she  and  Bertha  begin  to  be  most 
wondrous  busy,  for  everywhere  the  spirit  of  thanksgiving 
is  abroad,  and  there  is  to  be  a  special  service  in  the  gray 
old  Sunfleet  church. 

Jane  and  Bertha  begin  to  haunt  the  precincts  of  the 
church  like  industrious  specters.  Each  day  they  repair  to 
their  labors  behind  the  pale  green  windows,  bearing  armfuls 
of  chrysanthemums  and  golden  sheaves  of  cleansed  wheat; 
and  toil  at  the  head  of  a  small  band  of  workers  until  the 
sun  sinks  and  the  dim  lamp-light  through  the  diamond- 
glazed  windows  tells  of  an  unabated  industry.  And  the 
vicar  is  on  his  feet  all  day,  smiling  anticipated  welcomes  to 
his  nephew  along  the  lanes,  and  calling  round  on  parishion- 
ers and  others  to  fire  their  interest  in  the  event. 

"  A    wonderful    fellow,    Mrs.    Duncey.     Spoke   for    forty 


I98  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

minutes  at  the  Bramleigh  Working  Men's  Institute  the  other 
day.  Without  a  single  note.  And  I'm  told  you  might  have 
heard  a  pin  drop.  The  church  ought  to  be  crowded  —  if 
people  have  any  sense  about  them." 

"  I  hope  you  won't  fail  us  on  Thursday,  Mrs.  Smeaton, 
when  your  favorite  preacher  comes.  We  must  feel  ourselves 
very  fortunate  in  having  secured  him,  for  I  may  tell  you  now 
that  I  had  small  hope  of  it  when  I  wrote.  I've  just  had  a 
peep  at  the  decorations,  and  without  betraying  confidences  I 
think  I  may  go  so  far  as  to  say  that  they  will  be  a  surprise 
to  everybody.  Be  sure  and  bring  your  husband  with  you." 

And  the  Rev.  Berkeley  Hislop  comes  at  last,  in  time  to 
superintend  the  final  touches,  and  bestow  clerical  praise  in 
response  to  cunning  demands  for  criticism.  And  the  eve  of 
thanksgiving  descends. 


XXV 

AND  Jane  puts  on  the  skirt  and  coat  of  deep  plum  purple 
in  which  the  Doctor  loves  to  see  her,  and  over  the 
folded  masses  of  her  hair,  those  insidious  serpent-like  strands 
of  golden-brown,  coiled  in  fine  slumber,  she  sets  the  spread- 
ing amplitude  of  dark  straw  that  is  called  a  hat,  with 
wreathed  veils  of  violet  about  it.  And  all  this  shadowed 
bloom  of  mauve  and  violet  serves  to  define  the  perfection  of 
her  face,  and  to  caress  with  indulgent  color  the  soft  texture 
of  her  flesh,  and  to  deepen  the  azure  in  her  eyes  till  through 
their  lashes  they  diffuse  a  liquid  purple:  laughter  clad  in 
regal  robes  of  light. 

She  comes  down  the  staircase  with  her  lips  pursed  to  the 
buttoning  of  her  glove ;  drawing  the  soft  music  of  her  skirts 
behind  her,  that  sigh  at  each  step  like  the  whisper  of  admira- 
tion behind  fans.  The  button,  for  all  her  red  lips  devise 
a  hundred  insinuations  of  movement  for  its  captivity,  will 
not  yield  to  those  two  persuasive  fine  fingers.  She  sees 
Numphy  waiting  for  her  in  the  hall,  and  says,  "  Bother ! " 
and  tosses  the  hand  to  him  with  a  swift  outburst  of  smile 
that  irradiates  her  very  flesh,  crying :  "  Button  for  me, 
Numphy."  He  takes  the  hand,  in  his  heart's  eagerness,  as  a 
hungry  traveler  might  seize  upon  a  cutlet,  for  despite  the 
close  proximity  of  their  daily  lives,  occasions  do  not  bring 
this  treasured  member  so  frequently  within  the  compass  of 
his  own  as  he  could  wish.  The  very  nearness,  even,  of  their 
intercourse  robs  him  of  some  of  those  desired  privileges; 
closes  many  cherished  avenues  to  love,  and  sets  proximity 
like  a  tantalizing  gulf  between  them.  He  is  anxious  to  serve 

199 


200  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

her  with  his  skill,  and  yet  not  to  employ  it  too  cruelly  for 
the  curtailment  of  his  own  content;  dallying  with  the  pearly 
emblem  of  perversity  that  has  procured  him  this  joy,  while 
the  warmth  that  is  current  in  that  little  wrist  steals  through 
its  integument  of  suede  and  returns  the  soft  pressure  of 
his  fingers  wherever  they  dwell,  as  with  lips  that  kiss. 
Twice  he  could  have  caught  the  button  captive;  twice  he 
lets  the  fugitive  elude  him  that  he  may  have  the  joy  of 
Jane's  warm  wrist  prolonged.  Until  at  last  he  hears  Jane's 
voice  exclaim  incredulously,  "  Why !  it  must  be  buttoned  by 
this  time,  Numphy.  Of  course  it  is,  you  silly  boy.  Didn't 
you  know  ?  " 

She  summons  Hester,  ostensibly  to  brush  her  skirt,  but  in 
reality  to  admire,  and  lend  a  further  mandate  to  vanity. 
Hester,  her  plump  cheeks  glowing  with  zeal  like  oven-plates 
on  cooking  day,  drops  down  on  her  knees  to  eradicate  one 
microscopic  spot  upon  the  skirt's  hem,  and  exclaims,  "  Oh, 
Miss  Jane,  you  do  look  lovely!  Folks  will  stare."  To 
which  Jane  in  her  dear  prim  voice  retorts,  "  Nonsense, 
Hester.  Why  should  they?  I  hope  they  never  will,  in 
church.  Besides,  there  will  be  nobody  much  there.  And 
it  is  not  as  if  I  had  been  saving  the  dress,  Hester.  I  wore 
it  quite  regularly  all  the  time  I  was  away.  I  declare  it 
begins  to  look  shabby  now." 

As  soon  as  these  two  shall  be  gone,  Hester  is  to  make  a 
hurried  assumption  of  her  outdoor  things  and  follow  to  the 
church,  where,  the  plausible  groom  has  said  in  an  undertone 
by  the  kitchen  door,  "  I  shall  maybe  see  ye  someweers. 
Look  aboot  ye  when  ye  come  oot.  I'll  gie  a  whistle."  Anne 
has  rejected  all  suggestions  to  become  a  worshiper,  saying 
that  she  can  catch  cold  easy  enough  at  home  without  going 
out  for  it.  But  she  comes  into  the  hall  to  lend  a  counte- 
nance of  approving  severity  to  Jane's  toilette. 

"  Skirt  would  do  to  be  a  good  two  inches  higher  at  back," 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  201 

she  says.  "  And  them  shoulders  puckers  a  bit."  But  she 
baptizes  the  effect  general  with  a  sparing  sprinkling  of  com- 
mendation, telling  Jane,  "  You'll  do  —  nobbut  you  lift  your 
skirts  well  up,  and  look  where  you  tread.  Roads  isn't  fit 
for  syke  dresses." 

The  service  does  not  begin  before  half-past  seven,  but 
Jane  wishes  to  be  in  good  time,  so  that  from  the  big  pew  she 
can  watch  the  worshipers  assemble,  and  they  leave  the 
house  before  the  hall  clock  shows  the  hour. 

They  are  among  the  early  worshipers,  though  not  the 
first.  Already,  dispersed  in  the  pitch-pine  pews  about 
the  body  of  the  church  are  straggling  visitors,  mostly  from 
afar,  as  their  anxiety  to  be  seated  shows.  Those  who, 
holding  their  hats  aslant  and  lowered,  appear  to  be  weaving 
invisible  webs  in  the  air  with  the  forefinger  and  thumb  of 
each  hand,  two  inches  before  their  nose,  have  most  probably 
driven  from  Beachington  or  Peterwick.  They  are  repair- 
ing the  ravages  to  fringe  of  quick  night  air  and  mist  — 
the  latter  a  much  more  injurious  thing  to  curls  than  it  is  to 
weak  chests.  Those  who  can  be  heard  breathing  in  the 
pauses  of  the  bell,  and  rubbing  the  high  color  from  the 
forehead  downward,  as  though  they  were  polishing  apples, 
and  telling  each  other  in  strepitous  undertones  how  hot  they 
are  —  belong  to  the  ardent  army  of  walkers,  who  have  most 
likely  covered  half  a  dozen  miles  of  rough  road  at  a  racing 
pace  in  the  frail  shoes  fashionable  to  the  district,  and  whose 
petticoats  will  be  surreptitiously  compared  behind  the  cover 
of  the  pew  back,  to  establish  who  can  claim  the  dampest 
skirts,  and  the  deepest  margin  of  adherent  dust.  All  of 
them  are  known  to  the  Doctor  for  some  complaint  or  other, 
sniggering  self-consciously  at  the  sight  of  him  according  to 
the  recency  or  delicateness  of  the  disorder.  His  advent  with 
Jane  serves  immediately  to  compress  a  whole  pewful  of 
heads  into  the  whispering  apex  of  a  confidential  pyramid; 


2O2 

after  which  the  pyramid  resolves  into  a  row  of  human  faces, 
so  frankly  turned  that  it  gives  the  pew  the  sudden  effect  of 
being  transposed  towards  the  belfry.  This  bucolic  feeding 
of  curiosity  does  not  in  the  least  disturb  Jane's  equanimity. 
With  her  wonderful  artillery  of  charms  and  fortified  vani- 
ties she  seems  made  for  observation:  it  is  her  natural  ele- 
ment. 

Jane  sweeps  into  the  great  square  carpeted  pew  with  a 
smile  of  infinite  condescension,  for  she  never  forgets  the 
position  due  to  her  through  Numphy,  and  drops  on  her 
knees  with  the  prettiest  grace  imaginable,  plunging  her  face 
at  once  into  her  hands  in  a  single  movement  as  rapid  and 
spontaneous  as  one  of  her  own  smiles,  and  showing  the  full 
circumference  of  hat,  with  all  the  intricacy  of  its  violet 
wreathing,  to  the  whispering  pews  —  which  alternate  in  con- 
sequence so  violently  between  pyramids  and  faces  as  to  give 
a  convulsed  appearance  to  the  aisle.  The  Doctor,  preparing 
himself  more  carefully,  and  holding  the  rim  of  his  hat  mo- 
mentarily to  his  forehead,  as  though  prayer  were  a  some- 
thing rather  to  be  recalled  than  uttered,  wonders,  while  he 
inclines  gravely  to  the  grained  ledge,  what  it  is  that  ani- 
mates Jane's  mortal  heart  when  she  kneels  thus  before  the 
presence  of  her  starry  overlord.  What  is  receptacled  in  this 
sweet  posture  of  sincerity?  Does  she  ask  blessings  with  her 
lips,  or  pour  thankfulness  out  of  a  full  heart?  Or  is  all 
her  prayer  but  outward  seemliness,  and  this  pious  attitude 
the  sole  expression  of  it?  Even  so,  and  merely  supposing 
—  what  then?  To  each,  thinks  the  Doctor,  pasturing  his 
eyes  upon  her  as  she  kneels  —  to  each  his  language.  To 
one,  lips  and  a  fluent  tongue;  to  another,  a  fervid  heart; 
to  a  third,  a  sort  of  soul's  hunger,  that  speaks  through  star- 
vation. To  the  fourth  —  and  this  how  rare  —  the  silent 
tongue  of  Beauty.  Is  not  Beauty  indeed  first  cousin  to 
prayer,  and  harmonious  movement  a  sort  of  worship? 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  203 

She  is  longer  on  her  knees  to-night  than  usual,  he 
fancies;  and  when  she  rises,  the  pressure  of  her  gloved 
hands  is  tinted  in  soft  pink  upon  her  temples.  There  is  a 
liquid  brightness  about  her  blue  eyes,  and  a  distance  in  their 
focus,  as  though  they  had  been  looking  far  into  the  realms  of 
heaven  or  the  future.  But  she  turns  to  seek  his  gaze,  and 
the  long-drawn  look  melts  down  in  a  brief  flash  to  the  inti- 
mate short  distance  between  them.  The  liquid  blue  eyes 
brighten  to  a  smile  as  when  sunlight  kisses  still  water,  and 
laying  her  hand  upon  his  sleeve,  she  begins  eagerly  to  en- 
gage his  opinion  on  the  result  visible  of  all  these  latter-days' 
labor.  The  church,  indeed,  is  filled  like  a  granary;  fatness 
drops  from  it  in  comfortable  abundance  at  every  hand. 
Rows  of  rounded  produce  line  the  broad  sills  and  sanctuary 
steps;  swedes  and  common  whites,  green  barrels  and  wur- 
zels ;  great  red  cabbages  and  roots  of  beet,  intermingled 
with  the  humble  potato. 

The  light  from  the  twinkling  lamps  distributed  sparsely 
through  the  church  on  their  wooden  standards  —  that  fit  in 
brass  sockets  in  the  pews,  holding  their  broad  wicks  coiled 
to  view  within  vessels  of  transparent  yellow  glass  —  was 
absorbed  thirstily  by  the  deep  mellowness  of  the  decoration. 
Jane,  herself  and  human,  even  in  the  house  of  God,  points 
out  with  a  special  forefinger  the  pulpit  and  the  lectern,  say- 
ing she  particularly  wants  to  know  what  Numphy  thinks  of 
these  —  which  means,  in  effect,  they  are  her  doing.  And 
Numphy  thinks  the  world  and  very  heaven  of  them.  The 
pulpit  is  wreathed  with  wheat  and  ivy,  and  the  most  wondrous 
autumn  leafage  from  the  hedgerow ;  blood-stained  briar  and 
crimson  bramble,  with  the  variegated  maple  and  the  mellow 
bullace  gold. 

Dripping  from  the  sermon  ledge  are  bunches  of  fat 
grapes  (some  of  them  Numphy's  own  giving),  as  though 
the  pulpit  were  the  horn  of  plenty ;  with  white  chrysanthe- 


204  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

mums  festooning  the  sounding-board  to  indicate  this  higher 
part  pertains  to  heaven,  and  symbolize  the  dedication  of  all 
this  increase  to  the  pure  glory  of  God.  The  lectern  is  sim- 
ilarly treated  —  though  Jane  must  tell  him  that  Bertha  sug- 
gested the  effective  use  of  the  red  cloth.  To  which  Numphy 
says :  "  No  matter.  It  would  have  looked  quite  as  well 
without."  And  Jane  says:  "Perhaps  it  is  just  a  thought 
too  red,"  but  adds  magnanimously  that  she  doesn't  know. 
And  "  Thou  givest  them  their  meat  in  due  season,"  shines 
forth  in  gleaming  splendor  of  straw  capitals  from  a  cardinal 
ground  above  the  reredos,  whilst  all  the  columns  are  gar- 
landed with  spiral  wheat  and  ivy,  typifying  fruitfulness  and 
faithfulness  in  the  worship  of  God. 

Meanwhile,  the  church  has  filled  to  the  fair  semblance 
of  a  congregation;  rows  of  chipped  straw  hats  and  varie- 
gated blossoms  rustle  dryly  between  the  Doctor's  pew  and 
the  chancel,  with  a  sprinkling  of  boys  and  men,  who  sit 
plunged  to  the  ears  in  coat  collars,  as  though  this  were  the 
Assizes,  and  the  case  stood  black  against  them. 

So,  the  watchfinger  being  upon  the  hour,  the  bellringer 
terminates  his  tolling,  and  silence  seems  an  abrupt  and 
churlish  thing  by  comparison  with  this  previous  amicable 
jangle. 

Simultaneously,  the  boy  blower's  head  is  seen  moving  pre- 
cipitately up  and  down  the  profile  of  the  American  organ  to 
a  gasping  sound  of  hassocks  being  beaten,  and  the  school- 
master embarks  therewith  upon  a  frail  and  simple  voluntary 
—  something  in  the  likeness  of  a  Lenten  hymn,  only  slower, 
and  more  mournful.  And  after  a  while  of  this  lugubrious 
music  the  vicar  and  his  nephew  issue  gravely  forth  behind 
the  wanded  verger,  and  straightway  the  voluntary  flutters 
to  extinction  like  a  candle  blown  upon,  and  these  thankful 
people  are  bidden  in  the  vicar's  voice  to  raise  the  shout  of 
Harvest  Home.  Whereat,  to  stimulating  strains  of  the  fa- 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  205 

miliar  hymn,  rising,  after  the  first  uncertainty  of  lip  and  hic- 
coughing organ,  with  the  fullness  of  a  ripening  crop  from  a 
hundred  uplifted  throats,  the  harvest  festival  begins,  and 
the  worship  goes  up  before  God. 

It  is  over;  the  hymns  are  hushed;  all  this  worship  is 
gathered  up  into  the  endless  peace  of  Abraham's  bosom. 

And  the  evening  hymn,  void  of  aspirates,  but  buoyant 
with  a  gustatory  devotion  that  bursts  these  frail  channels 
for  the  compression  of  human  breath,  has  been  raised  to 
the  coffered  roof  of  oak  — 

Praise  God  from  oom  all  blessings  flow, 
Praise  'Im  all  creatures  'ere  below, 
Praise  'Im  above,  ye  'eavenly  'Ost, 
Praise  Father,  Son  and  'Oly  Ghost. 

And  hats  have  been  groped  for  during  the  benediction;  and 
the  double  doors  have  been  thrown  open,  and  the  farm  lads 
have  rushed  through  them  like  an  armored  dragon  of  endless 
sections,  a  pair  of  legs  to  each,  striking  sparks  out  of  the 
tiled  floor  with  their  hob-nailed  boots.  And  the  solemn  wor- 
shipers have  lingered  about  the  aisles,  noting  and  admiring. 
And  the  vicar,  under  the  stimulus  of  his  nephew's  oratory, 
has  dived  into  the  congregation  with  a  pregnant  look  of 
anxiety  on  his  face  lest  he  should  be  too  late  for  the  best  of 
them,  dragging  Berkeley  round  with  him,  to  be  exhibited 
right  and  left,  and  yet  retained  too,  in  the  showing,  with  the 
possessor's  greed;  introduced  with  all  the  affability  that 
pride  can  kindle  in  an  uncle's  bosom,  and  withheld  by  the 
very  glory  that  gives  this  showing  its  zest. 

And  when  the  vicar  has  shaken  the  last  hand  —  though  he 
uses  this  form  of  recognition  sparingly,  and  then  only  to 
better  visitors  of  five-miles'  standing,  preferring  to  dispatch 
his  own  parishioners  with  a  dismissive  touch  on  the  arm  that 


206  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

blends  condescension  with  authority  —  he  calls  on  Berkeley, 
and  Bertha,  and  Jane,  and  the  Doctor,  as  pre-arranged,  and 
these  five  thread  their  way  through  the  gravestones  and 
stragglers,  and  go  across  to  the  vicarage,  where  there  is  a 
special  Harvest  Festival  supper  prepared,  to  prolong  the 
night's  worship  with  friendly  communion.  And  here,  glow- 
ing under  the  stimulus  of  good  thanksgiving  and  well-re- 
quited pride,  the  vicar  rises  to  the  very  best  of  spirits;  and 
even  the  Rev.  Berkeley  seems  to  clap  the  dust  out  of  the 
dry  volume  of  his  reserve  and  assume  a  human  color  in  his 
temples;  and  the  Doctor  tells  one  or  two  stories  excellently 
well ;  and  Bertha  laughs  with  less  restraint  than  ever  he  has 
known  her;  and  Jane  sings  —  though  Bertha,  despite  all 
pressure  from  her  uncle,  refuses,  saying  she  really  cannot ; 
she  cannot  really.  Which  is  the  one  thing  that  detracts 
from  the  vicar's  happiness,  for,  after  each  song  that  Jane 
gives  them,  he  turns  to  Bertha  and  says :  "  Now,  Bertha 
.  .  ."  in  a  voice  of  fresh  persuasion,  as  though  Jane's  skill 
were  only  serviceable  in  that  it  should  stimulate  Bertha  to 
a  display  of  hers.  But  Bertha  is  obdurate  behind  her  smiles 
and  blushes. 

It  is  a  trial  to  the  Doctor  that  music  always  makes  the 
vicar  loquacious,  for  he  would  like  to  sit  and  steep  himself 
in  the  pride  and  joy  of  Jane's  attainments,  to  render  his 
own  gladness  in  her  greater,  and  to  glorify  this  temple  of  his 
worship  with  shared  hymnody.  He  has  not  the  true  un- 
derstanding of  the  pieces  she  plays  and  the  songs  she  sings, 
he  is  aware,  any  more  than  a  worshiper  knows  the  period 
and  style  of  architecture  of  the  church  he  kneels  in,  but  her 
music  moves  him  always  to  a  sort  of  sacred  silence,  as  a  soul 
is  hushed  by  the  sight  of  tall  columns  and  tranquil  aisles. 
But  the  vicar  seemingly  hears  his  music  only  as  a  conversa- 
zione of  sounds  inviting  to  discourse;  after  the  first  bar  of 
piano  his  tongue  begins  to  wag,  and  thereafter  it  will  not 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  207 

cease  to  vex  the  Doctor's  ear  until  the  harmony  is  at  an  end. 
However,  though  the  full  devotion  of  this  secular  service 
is  denied  him,  the  Doctor's  word-imprisoned  soul  draws 
consolation  through  its  bars,  from  glimpses  of  Bertha's  so- 
licitude in  ministering  music  to  the  singer ;  and  the  Rev. 
Berkeley's  attentiveness,  that  even  materializes  itself  to  the 
point  of  turning  Jane's  pages,  though  the  Doctor  is  glad  to 
see  he  misses  some,  since  this  is  his  own  offense.  Then, 
the  music  at  an  end,  and  the  watches,  when  referred  to, 
showing  midnight,  they  rise,  and  the  party  breaks  up  —  as 
parties  not  infrequently  do  —  in  a  supreme  outburst  of 
animation;  so  that  all  the  friendship  of  the  evening  seems 
epitomized  in  a  brilliant  leave-taking.  The  air  is  as  keen  as 
iced  wine,  as  chill  and  as  warming ;  but  keener  and  warmer 
and  more  quickening  to  the  Doctor's  pulses  is  the  soft  arm 
that  Jane  slips  into  his,  drawing  herself  breast-close  to  him 
as  they  walk.  Walk?  Why,  to  be  truthful,  out  upon  the 
lonesome  road  they  trip  in  trochees  —  a  long  and  a  short  to 
each  foot  —  like  home-going  scholars ;  and  more  than  once 
Jane  strains  impulsively  to  her  bosom  and  cheek  the  arm 
she  holds  with  both  her  hands.  Surely,  something  in  this 
night  of  worship  and  clear  happiness  has  brought  them 
closer ! 

They  come  into  the  hall,  with  the  brass  candlesticks  laid 
ready  for  their  bedroom  use  on  the  hall-table.  But  Jane 
has  no  mind  for  bed ;  she  wants  to  sit  and  talk  with  Numphy 
yet  awhile.  How  little  she  seems  to  have  seen  of  him  all 
these  recent  days,  while  she  has  been  threading  tedious 
festoons  of  autumn-leafage  and  wreathing  dusty  old  pillars 
and  window  ledges.  Come !  Numphy  must  have  a  pipe  in 
the  big  chair,  and  she  will  sit  on  the  arm  of  it,  and  they  shall 
talk,  talk,  talk. 


XXVI 

THE  fire  still  flickered  in  the  grate,  bursting  out  into 
reminiscent  flames  now  and  again  (like  the  vicar  when 
his  gold-stopped  smile  gleams  to  radiant  memories  of  some 
nephew)  and  casting  the  trellised  shadow  of  its  protective 
guard  in  brief  snatches  on  the  ceiling.  Jane  it  was  who 
drew  the  big  chair  into  the  charmed  area  of  firelight  and 
comfort,  and  Jane  removed  the  guard  and  coaxed  the  coals 
till  they  burned  a  willing  red,  like  human  cheeks.  So  far 
she  had  not  taken  off  her  hat,  nor  would  she  seat  herself 
until  the  Doctor  had  yielded  to  her  playful  pressure  and 
sunk  back  on  the  cushions  with  an  attitude  of  comfortable 
submission.  Then,  when  his  pipe  was  lighted,  and  the  strag- 
gling threads  of  fire  coalesced  in  the  briar  bowl  to  a  disk  of 
glowing  red  each  time  he  drew  upon  it,  Jane  seated  herself 
side-saddle  on  the  fat  chair-arm,  and  lifting  up  her  lissome 
hands  in  a  becoming  movement  that  made  a  frame  for  her 
face,  drew  out  the  deadly  rapier  pins  that  pierced  her  hat. 
Almost  at  once,  as  though  the  action  corresponded  with 
some  new  turn  of  her  thoughts,  she  became  pensive,  laid  the 
hat  upon  her  lifted  knee,  and  pricked  its  trimmings  abstract- 
edly with  the  gathered  pins,  by  seeming  way  of  accompani- 
ment to  some  deeper  reflection.  So  deep,  indeed,  that  on  a 
sudden  she  sighed,  and  the  sigh  ended  it.  For  at  that  she 
mocked  her  own  sigh  with  an  immediate  "  Heigh-ho !  "  and 
laughter.  One,  two,  the  pins  were  thrust  through  this 
spacious  thing  of  adornment,  and  Jane's  left  hand,  sliding 
along  the  arch  of  upholstery  above  the  Doctor's  head,  took 
an  ebullient  dive  into  the  Doctor's  hair,  where  the  fingers 

208 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  209 

ruffled  his  locks  to  splashes  of  rallying  affection.  Swift,  her 
face  descended  upon  him  with  the  brevity  and  beauty  of 
a  rare  meteor  drawing  its  dazzling  train  of  blue-eyed 
laughter,  her  arms  encompassed  his  neck,  her  lips  impressed 
themselves  upon  his  forehead  in  a  quick  round  O  impul- 
sively bestowed.  Next  moment  they  sought  his  ear  — 
mendicant  lips,  garbed  in  petition,  that  breathed  his  name 
with  a  warm  coax  in  it  — 

"Numphy     .     .     ." 

With  his  own  purpose  thickening  all  the  current  of  his 
blood  and  clogging  his  heart's  channels,  the  name  —  wrapped 
in  this  magic  of  warm  breath  like  spring's  message  in  a 
south  wind  —  spread  a  sudden  mist  about  him.  The  very 
flush  that  rose  to  his  temples  seemed  a  veritably  visible 
thing;  licking  him  like  a  flame,  and  burning  hot.  He  drew 
the  pipe  from  his  unsteady  lips,  and  blew  the  long  trumpet 
of  silver  smoke  aside  from  the  girl's  face  in  a  protracted 
expulsion,  before  venturing  to  trust  his  breath  to  speech. 
She  whispered  the  name  again,  more  coaxingly,  and  his 
courage  outstepped  the  mist  as  she  and  he  together  had 
outstepped  those  recumbent  floating  shapes  that  lay  across 
their  walk  to-night. 

"Numphy     .     .     ." 

"  Well  ? "  His  voice  was  a  little  ragged  and  self-con- 
scious at  the  edges.  "  What  is  it,  Jane  ?  " 

She  had  withdrawn  her  face  to  a  gazing  height  above  him, 
and  her  blue  eyes,  still  dancing  in  laughter,  but  shooting 
every  now  and  then  a  glance  of  keener  purpose,  shed  their 
starry  beams  upon  his  uplifted  countenance.  Thus  she 
gazed  at  him  for  a  space,  between  earnestness  and  mirth, 
purpose  coming  to  focus  once  in  a  while  only  to  be  dissipated 
by  the  dancing  rays.  She  burst  into  a  coil  of  laughter  at 
last,  when  his  gaze  —  magnetized  by  her  shimmering  eyes 
—  became  too  seriously  intent,  and  drew  herself  further 
14 


210  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

away,  with  but  the  tips  of  her  fingers  retaining  their  caress 
on  his  shoulders. 

"  How  you  look  at  me,  Numphy ! "  she  said,  and  bit  her 
underlip  out  of  sight.  It  sprung  forth  again  next  moment, 
on  the  crest  of  another  laugh ;  a  redder  lip  than  before,  with 
little  teeth-marks  fretted  enticingly  into  the  white  soft  flesh 
below  the  crimson.  "  Tell  me  .  .  .  Numphy.  Do  you 
see  anything  at  all  different  about  me  ?  " 

It  was  under  his  tongue  to  tell  her  that  he  did;  to  take 
the  question  boldly  by  the  hand  and  say :  "  I  think  I  see  you 
love  me,  Jane  .  .  ."  but  some  process  of  dissimulation 
deeper  than  his  own  impulse  shaped  and  uttered  his  reply. 

"  What  should  I  see  about  you,  Jane,"  he  asked  with  a 
smile,  "  that  I  have  not  always  seen  .  .  .  and  loved  to 
see?" 

His  words  and  the  sight  of  his  face  seemed  to  warm  her 
confidence  and  affection.  She  linked  the  dallying  hands  be- 
hind his  neck  and  bent  her  eyes  upon  his,  till  her  lips  almost 
touched  the  slumbering  bowl  of  his  pipe.  He  withdrew  it 
from  his  lips  and  said,  "  See  ...  let  me  put  this 
smoky  old  pipe  away,  Jane.  It  will  be  burning  your  chin," 
but  she  unlinked  her  hands  to  hold  his  down  in  their  place. 
"  No,  no,"  she  said.  "  I  want  you  to  go  on  smoking, 
Numphy,  just  the  same  as  you  always  do.  When  you  take 
the  pipe  out  of  your  mouth  and  look  at  me  like  that  .  .  ." 
She  did  not  complete  the  sentence,  but  reached  across  him 
to  seize  his  extended  left  hand,  with  the  pipe  in  its  hold, 
and  forced  the  well-bitten  stem  back  to  his  lips.  "  There !  " 
she  cried,  when  his  smiling  lips  closed  over  it.  "  Now  suck 
away,  Numphy,  and  make  as  much  smoke  as  ever  you  like. 
I  don't  mind  a  bit.  I  love  it." 

The  heart  of  the  bowl  glowed  like  a  red  penny  as  he  com- 
plied with  the  girl's  request,  and  puffed  upward  —  though  to 
a  side  —  the  long  spires  of  gray  vapor  that  Jane  looked  at 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  211 

in  ascension  with  the  momentary  steadfast  eyes  for  a  thing 
dearly  familiar,  yet  viewed  afresh  through  a  brief  clear  loop- 
hole of  sentiment.  One  hand,  the  left,  lay  still  on  Numphy's 
shoulder;  she  brought  the  right  to  meet  it,  round  his  neck, 
and  the  eyes,  hidden  from  him  by  upturned  velvety  lash, 
swam  down  to  him  like  swans. 

"  Numphy  ...  I  want  to  say  something  to  you. 
Suppose  —  suppose  some  one  cared  for  me  very,  very  much 
indeed." 

She  emphasized  each  "  very  "  with  an  inclination  of  her 
head  and  a  corresponding  pressure  of  the  encircling  hands. 
There  was  tender  apprehensiveness  in  her  eyes,  and  yet 
behind  and  through  their  seriousness  floated  the  sweet  witch- 
laughter,  that  tense  roguish  current  in  her  look  like  the 
rippling  of  blue  sky  beyond  sun-kissed  hedgerows  in  sum- 
mer. "  Some  one,"  she  went  on  to  say,  "  who  has  cared  for 
me  .  .  .  without  ever  saying  so  ...  for  oh,  ever 
such  a  long  time." 

Was  it  possible  this  girl's  courage  was  going  to  anticipate 
his  own?  His  heart  began  to  throb;  his  arm  —  that 
wretched  right  arm  that  had  trembled  to  the  impulse  so 
many  times  before,  and  then  turned  coward  at  the  last  — 
made  ready  to  enfold  her.  He  drew  the  prosaic  pipe  from 
his  mouth's  corner  and  held  it  casually  towards  the  fender, 
where  at  a  moment's  signal  it  might  be  dropped.  Like  a 
general,  in  one  clear  vision  of  battle  craft  he  saw  how  he 
would  win  her;  how  draw  her  down  to  him;  where  lodge 
that  first  kiss  of  conquest  and  supremacy. 

"  Suppose  ? "  he  said,  and  the  tremor  of  emotion  crept 
into  his  voice.  "  There  is  no  supposing,  Jane.  I  know  it." 

The  pipe  dropped  with  unregarded  clatter.  His  arms 
were  about  her.  She  sank  down  in  all  her  softened  beauty 
from  above  like  the  white  crest  of  a  wave,  that  broke  over 
him  and  blinded  him  —  though  with  perfumed  warmth  and 


212  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

love  in  place  of  surf  and  foam.  Not  since  his  arms  opened 
to  embrace  that  first  and  bitter  passion  of  all  those  years  ago 
had  he  known  a  moment  like  this.  For  it  was  but  a  mo- 
ment, and  yet  what  crowded  wonders  passed  through  it.  As 
he  held  her  to  his  breast  and  laid  his  first  real  kiss  upon 
her  lips,  all  his  life  seemed  to  leap  up  in  a  fierce  jet  like  a 
fountain,  and  saturate  him  with  its  waters;  permeate  him 
with  the  streaming  sense  of  every  moment  that  had  ever 
saddened,  or  cheered,  or  stimulated  it,  or  given  it  color 
or  a  mood. 

She  was  his;  he  was  exultant.  She  was  his;  he  was 
tender  —  nay,  remorseful.  He  felt  like  one  who  has  plucked 
a  blossom  more  by  desire  than  intention,  and  regrets  the 
spoilage,  so  easily  accomplished,  as  a  sort  of  sin.  After 
all  ...  so  young,  so  trusting.  His  years  condemned 
the  deed.  What  experience  had  this  girl  of  hearts?  She 
had  fallen  to  the  first ;  through  ignorance,  not  wisdom.  His 
years  acclaimed  the  act;  rose  up  in  all  their  strength  to 
crown  her  queen,  and  bond  themselves  for  her  protection. 
She  was  his ;  this  soft  miracle  of  womanhood ;  this  wonder- 
world  of  pouts  and  sighs,  and  smiles  and  looks,  and  words 
and  laughter.  How  he  would  guard  her,  cherish  her;  wrap 
her  in  the  warm  strong  garment  of  his  years  against  all 
bleak  assaults  of  the  world.  In  this  brief  moment  his  life 
was  purified  to  an  incredible  degree.  He  forgave  all  his 
enemies ;  human  antipathies  sank  away  from  the  purer  part 
of  him  like  dull  sediment.  The  vicar,  Bertha,  and  the  dry- 
cheeked  Berkeley  were  raised,  on  this  sudden,  into  the  sub- 
limity of  a  heavenly  group;  the  little  church,  with  all  its 
fleshly  worshipers,  was  lifted  far  up  above  him ;  translated 
to  the  skies,  a  temple  in  the  courts  of  heaven,  sheltering  the 
immortal  and  the  blest.  And  through  all  the  causeways  of 
his  consciousness  swept  that  final  harvest  hymn,  dimly  haunt- 
ing him  before,  glorified  now  into  a  paean.  His  every  fiber 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  213 

thrilled  to  it ;  his  mortal  part  was  no  longer  flesh  and  blood, 
but  music.  The  very  girl  against  his  breast  was  music ; 
they  were  become  music,  both  of  them,  interwoven  melodies, 
preserving  their  identity  by  some  strange  principle  in  a  vast 
harmonious  tide.  In  this  brief  moment,  as  he  held  her  to 
his  bosom,  with  her  smooth  face  covering  his  own,  all  the 
windows  of  his  life  were  thrown  open;  facing  every  pros- 
pect in  eternity :  past,  present,  and  future ;  each  seen  at 
once,  and  perceived  in  a  sudden  blinding  revelation,  as 
though  to  the  clash  of  cymbals.  So,  for  six  pulsing  sec- 
onds, perhaps  —  not  more  —  though  to  him  a  century  of  life 
distilled  in  drops  of  inexpressible  sweetness,  he  held  this 
joy  within  his  arms ;  his  lips  to  her  cheek,  and  one  rhythmic 
current  of  melodious  blood  seemed  to  course  through  their 
undivided  veins.  And  then  —  when  for  all  time  he  could 
have  remained  like  this  —  the  spirit  of  a  fine  division  cleft 
their  union;  resistance  materialized  swiftly  into  liberating 
laughter  and  girlish  hands.  The  hands  contended  against 
his  bosom  for  release;  his  lips  suddenly  sucked  air  where 
that  warmth  of  cheek  had  been.  Her  face,  flushed  with  a 
kind  of  exultant  shame,  clad  in  a  garment  of  crimson 
laughter,  receded  to  the  old  roguish  distance  above  him. 
Across  her  brow  and  one  of  the  blue  eyes  trailed  a  lock 
of  her  golden-brown  hair  that  the  embrace  had  loosened,  and 
his  first  real  consciousness  of  the  material  moment  after  the 
spiritual  filtration  of  experience  through  his  purified  senses 
was  in  the  sight  of  the  girl's  white  fingers  as  she  put  back 
the  straying  strand. 

"  No,  no,  Numphy,"  he  caught  with  his  corporal  ear, 
while  that  inner  hearing  still  surged  to  the  sound  of  music 
and  the  harvest  hymn,  "  don't  be  silly.  Look  what  you've 
done  to  my  hair,  you  naughty  boy.  And  oh !  Just  look  at 
my  hat.  You  might  have  crushed  it  altogether."  Even  at 
such  a  supreme  moment  as  this  her  feminine  mind  deserted 


2i4  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

the  greater  topic  in  a  trice,  and  dropped  on  its  knees  at  the 
sight  of  trimmings  in  distress;  touching  the  injured  folds 
with  deft  sure  fingers  of  sympathy  and  skill.  "  There !  " 
She  applied  the  last  touch  of  fastidious  finger  to  the  thing 
of  flounces,  and  leaning  forward,  laid  it  on  the  table  out  of 
harm.  "  Now !  "  Whereat  her  smile,  undistracted  by  ca- 
lamity, poured  its  full  rays  on  him  again.  "  Let  me  tell 
you  all  about  it,  Numphy.  I've  got,  oh,  such  heaps  and 
heaps  of  things  that  I'm  dying  to  talk  about.  I  shall  never 
go  to  sleep  again.  Whatever  made  you  guess?  He  only 
told  me  this  afternoon  .  .  .  but  of  course  I've  known 
it  ever  such  a  long  time.  Bertha  was  the  first  to  notice  it 
.  .  .  when  we  were  at  Folkestone.  She  and  I  slept  to- 
gether there,  and  she  told  me  one  night  in  bed  .  .  . 
And  I  said,  *  Oh,  nonsense,  Bertha.  I  don't  believe  a  word 
of  it.'  But  I  did  .  .  .  and  I  knew.  And  the  next  day, 
when  we  were  watching  the  Boulogne  steamer  .  .  ." 


XXVII 

ALL  noiselessly,  and  with  a  noiselessness  that  is  in  itself 
a  horror  —  like  some  dire  apparition  of  the  night  from 
which  no  word  can  be  won,  but  that  approaches  silent  and 
cannot  be   stayed  or  swerved  or  altered   in   its  course  by 
human  speech  —  all  noiselessly  the  bubble  burst. 

Fool !     Fool !    Fool ! 

That  it  had  ever  come  to  this.  Now  he  knew,  staring  at 
the  face  above  him,  like  some  transfixed  visionary  who  sees 
death's  image  riding  out  of  the  blue  sky  —  now  he  knew  the 
meaning  of  those  haunting  supertones  that  had  troubled  the 
first  cathedralled  music  of  his  love.  His  smile,  that  had 
seemed  coexistent  with  eternity,  shrunk  down  through  a 
swift  course  of  realization  and  shame  to  a  mere  garment  of 
dissemblance  barely  covering  his  lips.  He  turned  hot  and 
cold  to  the  thought  of  his  folly.  More  than  the  blow  which 
had  just  fallen  on  him  was  the  sudden  consciousness  of  his 
own  scorn.  He  despised  and  hated  himself;  saw  the  full 
folly  in  him,  and  loathed  its  presence  like  some  noxious 
reptile  in  a  pit.  In  the  bitterness  of  the  moment  he  could 
have  laughed  aloud  —  horrible  laughter  it  would  have  been. 
And  the  very  sense  of  shame  saved  him  in  his  dark  hour, 
stung  pride  in  him  to  its  function  —  though  not  a  second  too 
soon,  fcr  the  light  in  the  girl's  dancing  eyes  was  already 
commencing  to  contract  with  a  curious  perplexity.  At  all 
cost  must  he  save  his  folly  from  suspicion ;  one  flicker  of  her 
scorn  would  bring  his  overburdened  spirit  to  the  dust.  He 
drove  the  relentless  spur  into  his  heart,  and  faced  her  smiling 
while  all  his  nature  bled. 

215 


216  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

Had  she  suspected?  Did  her  quick  woman's  instinct 
divine  that  sudden  disconnection  in  their  sympathies;  per- 
ceive even  now  the  strain  in  the  fine  web  of  their  relations, 
as  when  a  falling  raindrop  imperils  the  tightened  cables  of  a 
spider's  net?  No.  For  once  her  instinct  had  failed  her. 
For  once,  enveloped  in  that  thrilling  new  current  of  her  own, 
the  sense  of  his  passion  had  not  reached  her.  Besides  — 
how  should  she  guess?  The  very  absurdity  of  this  thing 
gave  him  sanctuary.  By  the  wildness  of  his  folly  he  was 
placed  safe  beyond  the  pale  of  her  discovery  or  scorn.  Not 
in  senseless  dreams  would  her  soul  be  led  to  suspect  that 
that  embrace  with  which  he  had  bound  her  to  his  bosom  was 
other  than  a  protective  gladness  exulting  in  her  own  joy, 
spontaneous,  impulsive,  fervent  rather  than  passionate. 

Sick  at  heart,  and  full  of  shame  for  the  necessity,  he 
stooped  to  his  discarded  pipe.  The  mouthpiece,  still  wet 
from  his  lips,  came  back  to  them  a  cold  and  cheerless  and 
condemnatory  thing.  The  smoke,  as  he  drew  it,  flowed  over 
his  tongue  with  a  stale  and  dissatisfying  flavor,  seeming  to 
mark  reunion  with  a  life  of  years  ago.  Between  the  moment 
that  he  clasped  Jane  to  his  breast  and  now,  brimmed  a  great 
gulf  of  leaden  water  like  eternity. 

And  now  he  needed  all  his  courage,  all  his  wisdom,  all  his 
artifice.  Full  of  her  own  new-found  happiness;  quivering 
in  every  pulse  with  the  glorious  knowledge  of  being  coveted 
and  desired ;  proud  to  be  the  instigator  of  such  worship,  and 
apprehensive,  too,  of  this  power  that  the  magic  of  her  charm 
had  wrought  —  now  she  began  to  pour  out  her  heart  to  him 
in  a  trickling  tongue  of  impulses  that  taxed  his  fortitude  and 
dissimulation  to  their  last  degree. 

For  in  her  unconsciousness  and  joy  she  played  upon  his 
misery  like  a  harp.  Her  tongue  —  that  dear  keen  member 
—  dissected  sacred  passions  with  the  sang  froid  of  the  sur- 
geon's knife.  She  was  the  woman  all  told,  now  it  came  to 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  217 

love,  fascinating  and  horrifying  him.  She  had  the  real 
woman's  mind  that  arrives  at  its  perception  of  great  matters 
piecemeal ;  breaking  up  the  divine  subject  of  love  to  its 
minutest  fragments,  and  classifying  them  in  patient  pro  and 
con  with  all  a  woman's  industry  and  calculation.  Nothing 
was  too  small  for  her  observance,  nothing  too  sacred  for 
chronicle.  Now  she  handled  love  like  costly  silk  —  a  fabric 
to  be  touched  and  coveted  with  pricing  fingers;  now  like 
cold  utilitarian  calico.  Man  rises  under  love  to  heights  of 
magnanimity,  grows  larger  in  soul  than  his  mortal  stature, 
seeks  cecity  as  an  attribute  of  worship  in  the  way  that 
children  are  taught  to  close  .their  eyes  in  prayer.  Love,  to 
man,  is  more  or  less  of  a  divinity  —  or  he  would  have  him 
so;  he  does  not  wish  to  probe  into  the  mystery  of  the  god's 
being  and  find  it  naught  but  human  flesh  and  bone  and 
blood;  he  blinds  himself  and  makes  believe  the  texture  of 
the  flesh  is  burnless  fire  and  soft-searching  flame.  Woman, 
in  love,  is  as  inquisitive  as  a  forbidden  child.  She  brings  all 
her  scrutiny  to  the  new  passion,  as  if  it  were  a  hat;  seeks  to 
know  the  mystery  of  its  material  and  creation,  and  would  not 
hesitate  to  read  (if  she  could  only  find  it)  the  price  upon  the 
label. 

Jane,  athrill  with  the  unscrupulous  feminine  desire  to  pass 
her  wisdom  through  the  magic  of  a  listening  ear  and  collect 
its  drops,  distilled  to  a  rare  new  virtue,  from  every  conduit 
of  expression,  trickled  confidences  that  made  the  Doctor's 
heart  writhe  expiringly  in  its  constricted  shelter,  like  one  of 
the  forty  thieves  under  the  boiling  oil  in  his  earthen- 
ware tomb.  Only  a  thin  and  ghastly  mortal  smile  concealed 
the  heart's  tragedy  from  the  girl's  sight.  At  times,  in  agony, 
he  feared  it  must  be  rent ;  this  fabric  of  deception  torn  asun- 
der,—  but  ever  the  swift  fear  of  what  should  accompany  that 
frozen  consciousness  of  the  truth  in  the  girl's  look  spurred 
his  flagging  fortitude  afresh. 


218  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

He  beheld  himself  a  veinless,  passionless,  unsentient  thing 
in  her  estimation,  as  dearly  familiar  as  a  frequented  pool 
lying  still  and  placid  beneath  the  fringe  of  deep  green  trees, 
in  whose  shelter  she  divested  her  heart  unashamed,  as  she 
would  have  stripped  her  body  to  the  cold  companionable 
waves,  one  with  her  in  spirit  and  yet  of  another  element,  and 
naught.  His  manhood  winced  beneath  her  confidences,  for 
they  seemed  to  proclaim  him  not  of  the  acknowledged  race 
of  men  and  lovers ;  their  very  closeness  served  to  sunder  him 
from  her,  as  if  their  sex  had  been  the  same,  so  that  though 
she  drew  him  nearer  to  her  bosom,  he  stood  infinitely  further 
from  her  heart,  shorn  of  all  that  made  the  proximity  bear- 
able. And  now,  now  that  he  dared  no  longer  return  her 
fondlings  or  kindle  to  her  kisses,  she  did  not  stint  him  with 
affection.  Her  arms  would  tighten  on  his  neck,  her  face 
would  dip  laughingly  to  his,  her  lips,  cold  with  much  cal- 
culating discourse,  would  press  against  his  cheeks  until  he 
felt  the  first  flush  of  deadly  warmth  pulsing  to  their  surface ; 
she  would  apostrophize  him  in  a  hundred  parenthetical  trib- 
utes to  his  goodness,  his  dearness,  his  lovableness.  What 
he  suffered  beneath  those  wave-like  caresses  himself  and  the 
gods  above  him  only  knew.  More  than  once,  desperate  for 
freedom  and  the  spaciousness  of  his  own  unbounded  misery, 
he  prescribed  bed  as  the  wisest  of  all  medicines  for  a  heart 
in  love,  but  Jane  would  have  none  of  the  suggestion,  held 
him  captive  by  the  shoulders  and  begged  with  eyes  that 
well-nigh  blinded  him  for  "  one  more  pipe  yet,  Numphy, 
before  you  go."  All  the  inner  secret  of  that  ten  weeks' 
absence  was  unfolded ;  her  first  inklings  of  Berkeley's  attach- 
ment; her  self-interrogation  whether  she  really  cared  for 
him ;  her  pride  in  him  at  services  here  or  meetings  there ; 
her  wish  that  he  had  been  taller,  like  his  brothers ;  her 
private  talks  with  Bertha,  when  she  confided  to  Bertha  that 
she  did  not  think  she  could  ever  really  love  him ;  and 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  219 

Bertha's  heart-felt  petition :  "  Oh,  Jane !  do  try  and  like  him 
all  you  can,  for  my  sake.  I  would  love  to  have  you  for  a 
sister."  And  Bertha  —  shame  on  a  woman's  shameless 
heart  that  it  should  be  so  —  was  set  to  spy  upon  her 
brother's  feelings,  to  tap  in  secret  the  source  of  his  affec- 
tions, and  bring  back  the  stolen  fluid  for  their  joint  analy- 
sis. She  had  drawn  from  Jane  a  sacred  promise  to  let  her 
know  as  soon  as  Berkeley  made  proffer  to  kiss  her,  and 
asked :  "  Shall  you  refuse  him  first  of  all,  Jane  ?  "  and  Jane 
had  said :  "  It  all  depends,  Bertha.  What  should  you  do  ?  " 
And  Bertha  had  confessed :  "  Jane,  dearest,  I  wish  I  could 
advise  you.  But  it  is  so  difficult.  You  see  —  Berkeley  is 
my  brother."  More  than  once,  at  the  sound  of  Berkeley's 
footsteps,  Bertha  had  jumped  up  from  the  settee  that  she 
shared  with  Jane,  or  contiguous  chair,  and  said :  "  Here 
he  comes.  I  promise  I  won't  listen  at  the  door.  But  if 
—  if  he  says  anything,  don't  forget  to  twist  your  bangle 
as  soon  as  I  come  back." 

Bertha  found  out  which  of  Jane's  frocks  he  liked  the 
best,  and  which  hats  —  and  Jane  wore  them ;  and  which 
songs,  and  Jane  sang  them;  or  pieces,  and  Jane  played 
those.  And  Bertha  said :  "  Oh,  Jane,  you  do  look  sweet 
when  you  sit  at  the  piano  with  your  left  hand  on  the  keys 
and  the  right  just  touching  the  music-stool,  and  your  face 
three-quarters.  Berkeley  must  sit  just  here — I'll  leave  the 
chair  for  him  —  and  then  look  at  him  like  that." 

He  did  not  speak  of  love  to  her  before  she  left  —  though 
once  or  twice  she  began  to  be  a  bit  afraid  he  would  —  but 
as  she  was  drawing  on  her  gloves  for  departure,  in  such 
a  quick,  queer  voice  and  a  sort  of  funny  lump  in  his  cheek 
just  here,  he  said  he  wanted  very  much  to  see  her  again  be- 
fore long.  And  at  the  moment  of  leave-taking  he  had  bidden 
her  good-bye  with  her  hand  in  his,  and  said :  "  Must  I  call 
you  Miss  Alston?  Bertha  says  it  sounds  so  strange  and  un- 


220  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

familiar.  And  if  I  am  to  confess  it  —  I  always  think  of  you 
as  Jane."  She  had  told  him,  with  her  eyes  down,  "  Call  me 
Jane  —  like  Bertha."  And  he  went  ever  so  red,  all  down 
his  neck,  and  pressed  her  hand  as  hard  as  hard,  and  said: 
"  Thank  you.  Thank  you  for  that,  Jane.  I  shall  think  of 
you  a  great  deal.  You  must  call  me  Berkeley  in  exchange 
—  if  you  will."  And  she  had  promised.  Both  Bertha 
and  she  knew  why  he  had  come  to  preach  to-night.  First 
of  all,  when  Uncle  Horace  (she  spoke  of  the  vicar  as  Uncle 
Horace  now,  it  seemed;  the  title  stung  the  Doctor's  bosom 
like  an  asp) — when  Uncle  Horace  wrote  to  ask  him, 
Berkeley  said  he  feared  it  was  quite  impossible,  but  Bertha 
told  Jane  she  was  sure  he  would  come,  and  Jane  knew  for 
certain  that  he  would.  To  this  stricken  heart,  beating  with 
the  throes  of  despair  behind  the  Doctor's  smile,  she  repeated 
the  sacred  history  of  Berkeley's  avowal.  It  took  place  in 
the  vestry  —  just  by  the  little  broken  table  with  the  cracked 
looking-glass  on  it,  and  the  carafe,  where  Bertha  and  she 
were  making  some  extra  chains  of  ivy  for  the  end  pillars, 
for  they  had  run  short.  Berkeley  came  in,  and  Bertha 
jumped  up  and  said :  "  How  many  yards  more  shall  we 
need,  Jane?  I'll  just  go  and  see."  And  Jane  said,  "No,, 
no.  Let  me  go,  Bertha."  But  Bertha  pushed  her  back,  and 
she  knew  she  colored  up  to  her  ears,  as  Berkeley  did.  He 
said :  "  How  busy  you  are."  She  said :  "  Oh,  this  is  noth- 
ing. This  is  just  a  little  bit  for  the  end."  And  then  he 
coughed  and  came  close  to  her  —  and  took  her  hands. 
"  See,  just  like  this.  Give  me  your  hands,  Numphy." 

Her  white  fingers  seared  them  like  fire-bars ;  at  the  clasp, 
in  this  hateful  conjunction,  the  Doctor  withdrew  his  hands 
as  though  a  cry  had  accompanied  their  withdrawal. 

"  No,  no.  It  is  dishonest.  It  is  unfair  of  you,  Jane. 
You  have  no  right  to  tell  me  these  things.  They  should  be 
sacred." 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  221 

She  had  no  understanding  of  his  scruple,  no  divination 
deeper  than  his  smile.  For  her,  this  love  was  as  a  glorified 
new  frock  to  be  tried  on  delectably  for  the  arch  display  of  all 
her  graces;  a  rustling  silk  garment,  whose  every  movement 
diffuses  proud  music  when  she  walks  or  languishes  or  curt- 
sies in  it.  As  well  might  such  a  gown  be  hidden  in  some 
cupboard  with  the  dark  and  the  moths  for  its  companions, 
as  hide  her  love  from  sight  in  the  wardrobe  of  silence. 
She  pursued  his  fugitive  hands  and  caught  them  in  her  own, 
and  drew  them  back  for  their  ordeal. 

"  See  .  .  ."  The  torture  recommenced.  "  He  took 
my  hands  in  his  like  this ;  no  deeper  than  the  second  joint. 
I  know  my  thumbs  were  quite  free.  And  I  dared  not  look 
at  him  .  .  .  and  I  think  he  held  me  quite  half-a-minute. 
You  don't  know  how  my  heart  beat.  I  said :  '  But  this  is 
not  getting  on  with  work,  Mr.  Hislop'.  I  daredn't  call  him 
Berkeley  just  then  —  isn't  it  funny,  Numphy?  And  he  said: 
'  Berkeley,  Jane  ...  to  you.'  And  I  told  him  *  You 
must  really  let  go  my  hands,  Berkeley,  please.  I'm  sure 
Bertha  will  be  coming  back.'  He  lifted  them  up  ... 
just  like  this,  and  held  them  quite  close  together,  and  said, 
'  Before  I  let  them  go  Jane  .  .  .  there  is  one  very 
solemn  question  I  want  to  ask  you.  Can  you  guess  what  the 
question  is  ?  '  I  shook  my  head  and  said :  '  I'm  sure  there's 
somebody  listening.'  He  coughed  and  looked  round  the 
door  without  leaving  go  of  my  hands,  and  said :  '  Nobody 
would  do  such  a  thing,  Jane,  in  the  House  of  God.'  And 
then  he  said :  '  Jane,  ever  since  I  saw  you  last,  I  have  been 
living  in  the  hope  that  I  might  one  day  ask  you,  and  you 
would  one  day  consent,  to  be  my  .  .  .  wife.  Don't 
tell  me  the  hope  has  been  presumptuous  or  vain.'  I  said : 
'  Oh,  Berkeley !  I  .  .  .  never  expected  this.  What  a 
long  time  Bertha  is.  I  think  we  ought  to  go  and  seek  her.' 
He  said :  '  Perhaps  this  is  scarcely  the  moment  and  the  place 


222  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

to  say  what  I'm  saying  to  you  now,  Jane  .  .  .'  And 
oh,  Numphy,  you  don't  know  how  beautifully  he  talked 
to  me  then !  He  told  me  what  my  name  really  means. 
Do  you  know,  Numphy?  I  like  it  ever  so  much  better 
now.  It  means  the  gracious  gift  of  God.  Isn't  that  beau- 
tiful!" 

The  gracious  gift  of  God !  Its  very  meaning  mocked  him. 
He  could  have  groaned. 

"  He  asked  me  if  his  proposal  had  come  as  a  very  great 
surprise.  '  Perhaps '  he  said,  '  I  have  been  a  little  too 
precipitate  and  hasty.  If  so,  forgive  me,  Jane.'  I  know  I 
cried  a  little,  and  told  him :  '  Whatever  will  Bertha  say 
when  she  comes  back!  Don't  let  her  come  in  yet,  Berkeley. 
She  must  not  see  these  eyes.'  And  he  said,  *  I  think  there 
is  hope  for  me  in  those  eyes,  Jane.'  I  said  he  must  not  take 
them  for  a  promise.  '  Not  a  promise,  perhaps,'  he  answered, 
'  but  shall  we  say  a  token  ? '  And  I  was  forced  to  admit 
when  he  asked  me  that  he  had  often  been  in  my  thoughts; 
and  that,  if  anything,  I  liked  him  better  than  anybody  else 
I  knew — (Except  you,  Numphy!"  she  cast  in  impulsively. 
"  But  that's  different)  — and  that  there  was  nobody  else  who 
stood  in  the  way.  And  he  said,  '  Jane-  .  .  .  even  though 
you  have  not  given  me  your  final  answer,  I  think  there  is  no 
happier  man  to-day  than  I.'  Then  he  pulled  my  hands  a 
little,  and  said:  'May  I  .  .  .'  And -just  at  that  moment 
Bertha  came  in  and  said :  '  We  shall  want  fifteen  yards, 
Jane.'  It  was  rather  stupid  of  her.  I  said :  *  Fifteen  ? '  and 
she  said  '  Yes.  At  least  ...  I  think  so,  Jane.  But 
I'll  measure  again  and  make  quite  sure.' " 

So  the  rest  of  this  wretched  glorious  history  was  distilled 
drop  by  drop  to  its  end.  How  Berkeley  had  kissed  her  then, 
such  a  beautiful  kiss,  that  seemed  from  her  description  like 
the  Jubilate  and  the  Benedictus  combined,  and  made  her 
feel  dreadfully  wicked,  and  happy,  and  suddenly  desirous  of 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  223 

sanctity  and  the  purer  life.  And  how  he  asked  her  what 
text  he  should  preach  from,  and  she  had  suggested  the  text 
over  the  reredos,  and  he  had  told  her,  "  Jane,  this  will  be 
your  sermon."  "  I  don't  care  how  long  it  is,  Berkeley,"  she 
assured  him. 

Then,  the  service  over,  had  not  Numphy  noticed  how  she 
and  Berkeley  lingered  outside  the  vicarage  porch  —  so  that 
Uncle  Horace  had  to  call  them  in?  There  it  was,  with  the 
sound  of  Barnes  Welkit's  accordion  wafted  faintly  to  them 
as  he  marched  along  the  road  to  Peterwick  town-end,  playing 
"  There  is  a  Fountain  filled  with  Blood  "  to  the  hedgerows 
and  plowed  headlands  —  there  it  was  that  she  had  finally 
consented ;  for  she  had  talked  it  all  over  with  Bertha  as  soon 
as  Berkeley  left  the  church,  and  Bertha  had  begged  her  to 
say  "  Yes "  to-night.  It  would  be  so  beautiful,  Bertha 
thought,  to  say  it  after  Berkeley's  sermon,  and  be  able  to  look 
back  ever  after  on  this  night  as  the  great  night  of  all.  And 
Bertha  had  shed  tears  too.  Didn't  Numphy  notice  how 
she  went  out  for  awhile,  so  that  Uncle  Horace  said,  "  God 
bless  me,  Berkeley.  First  of  all  it's  you,  and  then  it's 
Bertha.  What  in  the  world  has  got  the  girl !  "  Yes,  Num- 
phy thought  he  had  noticed.  And  didn't  he  see  how  she  sat 
far  back,  away  from  the  lamp  for  a  time,  so  that  the  light 
could  not  shine  on  her  wet  eyes?  He  scarcely  remembered. 
To  him  everything  was  fast  assuming  the  horrid  unreality 
of  a  nightmare.  Well,  she  had.  And  she  had  been  up  to 
her  bedroom  and  thrown  herself  on  the  bed,  and  given  her- 
self over  to  a  real  good  cry.  After  supper  she  and  Jane 
slipped  up  to  the  bedroom  together,  and  lay  on  the  bed  for 
three  minutes  with  their  arms  twined  round  each  other's 
neck,  and  cried  a  duet.  Bertha  said  she  found  it  impossible 
to  describe  her  feelings.  First  she  felt  supremely  happy, 
and  wanted  to  dance  Jane  round  the  vicarage.  And  then 
an  awful  feeling  of  supreme  misery  crept  over  her  —  like  a 


224  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

pain  that  comes  close  to,  without  touching  —  so  that  she 
felt,  with  the  least  encouragement  in  the  world,  she  could 
have  cried  her  heart  out.  She  said  it  made  the  harvest 
festival  seem  more  like  a  funeral  to  her.  Jane  was  as 
though  dead  to  this  world  of  suffering,  translated  to  a 
higher  sphere  of  celestial  gladness  and  reward,  leaving 
Bertha  lonely,  piously  rejoicing  in  Jane's  happiness,  but 
mourning  the  lost  part  of  her  entailed  by  the  change,  that 
seemed  a  very  spirit  fled.  She  had  clutched  Jane's  hand 
and  cried  that  already  she  perceived  a  difference.  Jane  was 
altered  towards  her.  Jane  vowed  it  was  untrue.  "  Will  you 
promise  me  on  your  sacred  word,"  Bertha  begged  her,  "  that 
you  will  never  love  Berkeley  better  than  me?  I  knew  you 
first.  I  was  your  friend  first."  Jane  promised,  saying, 
"  How  could  I  love  him  better  than  you,  Bertha  ?  There's 
nobody  in  the  world  I  love  better  than  you  (Except  you, 
Numphy ! "  she  cast  in  again.  "  But  that's  different  alto- 
gether.)" "  You  will  have  no  secrets  from  me,"  Bertha  had 
petitioned.  "  You  will  tell  Berkeley  nothing  that  you 
keep  from  me  ?  And  you  will  always  tell  it  me  first  ?  "  To 
which  Jane,  with  that  unblushing  feminine  fidelity  in  friend- 
ship which  breaks  the  stoutest  bars  of  reason  like  ginger- 
bread, said,  "  Why,  of  course,  Bertha.  Whatever  do  you 
think!" 

Bertha  shed  tears,  and  sighed  she  wished  she  could  believe 
it  possible.  "  Jane,"  she  demanded,  "  Do  you  hate  me  ?  " 
Jane  cried  her  friend's  name  in  an  accent  of  scarlet  protesta- 
tion. "  Bertha !  "  "  But  you  begin  to  look  down  upon  me," 
Bertha  said.  "  I  can  see  it  in  your  face.  You  have  a  sort 
of  compassion  for  me  now;  and  yet  —  he  is  my  brother, 
Jane,  after  all."  She  was  driven  to  reflect  on  her  own  posi- 
tion in  the  world,  and  confessed,  "  I  am  turned  twenty,  Jane. 
Two  years  older  than  you.  Do  you  think  —  speak  truly  — 
that  I  shall  ever  marry?  "  Jane  had  to  reassure  her.  Bertha 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  225 

caught  from  the  assurance  no  spark  of  comfort.  But  her 
own  doubts  suddenly  flamed  to  a  superb  prospect  in  possi- 
bility, "  Oh,  Jane  !  Wouldn't  it  be  glorious  —  if  some  one 
had  wanted  me  too,  and  we  could  both  of  us  have  been  happy 
together  ?  " 

All  this  had  been  seething  in  signs  and  portents  around 
him  to-night,  in  corners  and  behind  the  pages  of  music 
shared,  and  he  had  caught  no  single  hint  or  whisper ! 

Fool !     Fool ! 

And  Berkeley  was  coming  to-morrow  to  see  him,  to  sear 
the  final  brand  into  his  shrinking  flesh.  Berkeley  had  of- 
fered to  break  the  news  himself,  Jane  said;  but  she  had 
wished  to  have  the  joy  of  telling  dear  Numphy  just  in  her 
own  sweet  way.  Thereat  she  kissed  him  passionately  three 
times,  and  fell  suddenly  a-weeping  over  him  with  her  face 
against  his,  telling  him  he  was  the  dearest  Numphy  in  the 
world,  and  he  must  promise  to  love  Berkeley.  Thoughts 
of  her  dear  dead  mother,  too,  welled  up  to  trouble  both, 
with  smiles  succeeding  tears  in  heavenly  revelations,  pure 
gladness  pouring  over  glistening  lashes  like  blinding  sunlight 
over  wet  leaves  until  the  Doctor,  steeped  in  misery,  made 
the  final  resolute  dissimulation,  and  brought  the  ordeal  to 
an  end  with  feigned  thought  for  the  girl's  welfare. 

"  Come,  Jane,"  he  cried,  pulling  forth  his  watch  and  tap- 
ping the  face  of  it  significantly  with  his  forefinger.  "  Close 
on  two  o'clock,  and  here  we  are,  with  the  fire  out,  talking  as 
though  it  were  mid-day.  And  I'm  supposed  to  be  a  doctor, 
and  don't  know  better  than  that.  Not  another  word !  Bed's 
the  place  without  delay  for  a  serious  case  like  yours." 

He  knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe  into  the  fender,  and 
they  rose.  On  a  sudden  she  clasped  his  arm  retentively. 

"  Numphy !     Do  you  know,  now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  I 
don't  believe  you've  ever  said  one  single  word  to  tell  me  you 
are  glad !  " 
is 


226  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

"  Surely  Jane  .  .  ."  he  protested,  but  she  was  positive, 
and  said,  "  No,  not  a  single  word." 

For  a  moment  this  last  lie  stuck  in  his  throat,  huge,  un- 
dislodgeable ;  but  he  met  the  necessity  with  almost  physical 
exertion,  as  an  athlete  strains  to  the  throwing  of  the  discus. 

"  If  it  is  your  happiness,  Jane,"  he  told  her,  "  you  must 
surely  know  there  can  be  no  one  in  the  world  more  glad 
than  I." 

That  was  the  last  and  best  he  could  do.  He  kissed  her 
and  turned  to  the  lamp. 


XXVIII 

WHAT  is  this  dismal  sound  of  waters  in  commotion, 
of  mournful  wavelets  dredging  shingle,  or  splashing 
plaintive  over  pebbles,  or  suffocating  the  hollow  cavities 
between  wet  chalk  bowlders  with  passionless  melancholy 
music,  like  a  dirge  of  death  and  the  drowned? 

It  is  the  dank  night-noise  of  the  Hun,  moving  full-breasted 
to  sea  beneath  the  stars ;  murmurous  with  its  myriad  voices 
of  leaping  waters  that  stretch  out  joyless  hands  and  arms, 
and  talk  to  one  another  in  chill  undertones  as  their  host 
moves  on.  There  is  no  joy  in  all  these  riotous  waves;  the 
clash  of  their  cymbals  and  their  tambourines  is  muffled; 
they  dance  to  lamentation,  like  draped  mutes,  subsiding  over 
sobs;  weeping,  mourning  spirits,  that  depict  affliction  with 
their  winding  limbs,  and  dissolve  upon  despair.  A  tide  of 
tears  and  fluent  grief. 

Who  is  this  silent  being  wrapped  steadfastly  in  the  sound 
of  the  waters  by  the  banks  of  the  Hun;  with  the  Spraith 
lijylit  groping  over  him  inquisitively  like  a  surreptitious 
hand;  dealing  soft  touches  to  watch-chain  and  scarf-pin, 
collar  and  pale  tweed  cap?  Surely,  there  can  be  but  one 
such  figure  hereabout;  it  is  the  Sunfleet  Doctor  who  stands 
thus  with  his  left  wrist  grasped  in  the  right  hand  behind 
his  back,  as  if  he  were  his  own  captive,  and  stares  like  a 
sleeper  at  the  full  flood  moving  by.  Bed  for  him?  The 
thought  had  been  intolerable.  With  such  a  heart  on  fire, 
and  such  a  mind  suffocating  in  the  thick  smoke  of  it,  bed 
was  but  a  superadded  torture.  He  donned  his  cap  and 
sought  the  air.  The  spaciousness  of  a  sky,  distilling  stars 

227 


228  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

like  dropped  dew,  is  more  a  medicine  for  consumptive  hearts 
than  the  closeness  of  chambers. 

Fool !     Fool !     Fool ! 

How  had  he  been  deceived?  How  had  he  come,  in  the 
supreme  arrogance  of  his  folly,  to  take  all  this  coinage  of 
affection  and  ring  it,  without  test  or  scrutiny,  into  his  own 
exchequer  ? 

He  blushed  shame,  even  with  the  frosty  starlight  on  his 
cheek,  to  think  upon  his  blindness.  Her  kisses  of  him  had 
been  but  prefatory  of  the  kiss  to  come  that  was  to  part  them. 
Her  new-born  attachment  to  the  home  no  more  than  the 
clinging  of  fond  arms  about  the  neck  of  things  beloved  — 
yet  not  so  much  beloved  but  that  another  love  prevails ;  con- 
verting the  old  love,  in  its  sense  of  a  deserting  baseness, 
rather  to  compassion :  a  quality  that  pays  its  pity  in  advance, 
knowing  the  nearing  need  of  it. 

And  he  had  been  sure  of  her!  As  well  might  the  ephem- 
eral gnat  lay  claim,  in  its  quivering  happiness,  to  the  un- 
divided heritance  of  God's  sunlight.  He  was  no  more  than 
an  insect  joying  in  her  beams;  blindly  deeming  them  pos- 
sessions instead  of  benefits :  glories  to  hold  and  have,  rather 
than  blessings  to  know  and  share.  The  dead  woman's 
words  came  back  into  his  memory;  those  words  which  he 
had  let  like  a  sacred  tablet  into  the  walls  of  his  love.  "  And 
do  you  know,  Humphrey  — "  His  heart  retched  at  them. 
Down  with  this  pious  tablet,  deceiving  hope.  Down  to  the 
dust  with  this  wonderful  temple  that  sustained  it,  and  lent 
the  lie  shelter.  Down  with  all  these  high  pillars,  vaults  and 
arches;  buttresses  and  towers.  To  earth  with  them  forth- 
with ;  let  him  clear  himself  of  all  their  wreckage,  and  emerge 
the  mere  man,  with  no  false  worshiping-place  built  round 
him;  nothing  but  the  nakedness  of  the  sky  above,  and  the 
empty  world  about;  and  his  own  lonely  courage  to  uphold 
him. 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  229 

From  himself  and  his  own  suffering  part  in  the  girl's 
choice,  he  turned  aside  at  intervals  to  view  with  wonderment 
the  object  of  it.  That  she  should  ever  have  chosen  Berkeley 
Hislop  seemed  incredible  to  him;  of  all  hearts  in  the  world 
this  seemed  the  least  and  last  alighting-place  for  Jane's 
affection.  Magnanimous  moments  had  touched  him  to 
occasional  thoughts  of  pity  for  Jane's  youth ;  and  warmed 
him,  on  a  basis  of  security,  to  generous  regrets  that  the  girl's 
young  love  was  to  be  bestowed  on  sober  years.  He  had  told 
himself  that  those  remorseful  moments  when  her  sweet  kiss 
had  made  him  sorrowingly  sure  of  her,  that  she  deserved 
some  more  romantic  mate :  some  sanguine  boy  to  match  her ; 
some  flexible  green  sapling  in  whom  the  juice  of  folly  was 
pardonable  —  nay,  almost  admirable  —  to  bend  and  sway 
with  her  in  all  her  lightsome  moods ;  not  a  tough  oak  to  give 
her  grave  and  solid  shelter.  This  much  has  been  the  specter 
in  his  passion ;  the  shadow  of  his  years  upon  her.  And  now 
she  had  chosen  one  but  little  younger  in  terms  of  time; 
infinitely  older  in  terms  of  character  and  disposition. 

He  looked  back  at  the  bright  companionable  hours  that 
were  gone,  and  forward  to  those  lonely  leaden  hours  the  fu- 
ture held  for  him;  striking  brief  glimpses  of  a  life  without 
her;  truth's  matches  kindled  in  the  dark,  whose  quick  blaze 
caused  his  sight  to  shrink,  and  made  surrounding  darkness 
darker.  O,  Jane,  Jane,  Jane !  What  have  you  done ! 

A  thought  caught  him,  inflammable,  "  One  breath  of  truth 
might  blow  down  all."  He  dropped  the  smoldering  stuff 
and  ground  the  heel  of  resolution  on  it,  in  the  dust.  The 
evil  flame  was  trodden  underfoot,  but  the  reeking  memory 
stayed,  an  acrid  thing  assailing  conscience  unpleasantly,  like 
burnt  rag  beneath  the  nostrils.  How  far  was  Jane's  happi- 
ness to  be  sustained  by  fraud?  For  fraud,  the  moment 
Berkeley  Hislop  asked  a  dearer  relationship,  the  Doctor's 
silence  would  become.  His  mind  had  not  so  high  an  esti- 


230  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

mate  of  Berkeley  Hislop's  passion  as  to  suppose  it  capable 
of  transcending  a  solid  earthly  difficulty  such  as  this.  The 
thought  of  Julian  Alston  and  his  gypsy  paramour,  with  the 
girl's  bastard  half-brother  at  her  breast;  the  remembrance 
of  his  compact  with  this  drunken  degenerate,  jerked  con- 
science to  a  sudden  halt  on  its  heel.  He  had  a  momentary 
vision  of  the  vicar's  face  when  through  the  single  portal  of 
his  sound  ear  the  dread  truth  should  be  passed  to  his  in- 
credulous intelligence;  a  vision,  too,  not  less  disquieting, 
of  Berkeley  Hislop's  dry  countenance  in  the  hour  of  dis- 
closure; a  vision,  more  poignant  than  either  of  these,  of  an 
inconsolable  Jane,  weeping  under  abandonment  and  mur- 
dered pride;  a  wet-eyed  denunciatory  Jane,  shedding  tears 
and  dripping  fire  for  that  he  had  thus  wickedly  deceived  her 
—  and  his  courage  sank.  Nay,  he  winced,  even  at  the 
thought  of  it,  with  fear  her  weeping  might  accuse  him  of 
some  still  more  crimson  charge;  level  the  accusation  of  his 
love  against  him,  and  tell  him  this  sudden  exercise  of  con- 
science was  but  a  base  unworthy  means  to  reach  her.  And 
the  knowledge  of  how  easily,  but  for  his  very  love,  it  might 
be  so,  restrained  him  from  the  nobler,  manlier  course. 
Were  his  own  interests  alone  at  balance  on  the  scales,  he 
would  have  had  no  hesitance  or  doubt.  Truth  would  have 
been  his  pathway;  at  all  cost  he  would  have  taken  it.  But 
as  it  was  — 

As  it  was,  he  bitterly  deplored  his  silence  —  that  legacy 
from  the  girl's  dead  mother,  so  sacredly  accepted.  Silence, 
packed  and  stored,  is  an  explosive  scarce  less  deadly  than 
guncotton,  whose  power  conies  only  with  compression.  All 
these  years  had  stamped  this  secrecy  to  an  almost  solid 
charge.  Fired  ten  years  ago,  the  consequences  might  have 
been,  perhaps,  a  sputtering  flash  —  no  more ;  without  force ; 
nearly  noiseless.  But  now,  with  all  these  interests  involved, 
ignition  could  be  no  longer  gentle,  no  soft  tissue-paper  com- 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  231 

bustion,  succeeding  the  worded  spark.  Lay  the  match  how- 
ever discreetly  to  the  touch-charge  of  truth,  and  an  explosion 
must  inevitably  follow,  doing  what  harm  he  knew  not,  but 
wounding  one  or  more,  he  felt  assured.  The  dark  perplexity 
of  the  question  rose  about  him  like  a  flood.  In  the  need  to 
battle  with  it,  to  breast  and  swim  the  threatening  waters,  he 
cast  aside  unconsciously  the  burden  of  his  nearer  grief.  It 
was  enough  he  saw  his  dearest  Jane  in  danger  to  the  flood, 
and  thereat  he  strove  only  for  her  succor,  lightening  himself 
of  all  his  personal  impediment  of  thought. 

Day  was  beginning  to  dawn  in  soft  expirings  of  pink  and 
primrose,  quenching  the  eastward  stars  and  lending  clear 
reality  to  the  Doctor's  chimneys  when  at  last  he  took  his 
tired  face  homeward. 


XXIX 

JANE  cast  good-morning  arms  about  his  neck,  called  him 
"  dear  Numphy "  and  hugged  him,  and  held  him  at 
arm's  length  to  look  at  him  and  infer  her  confidences  of 
overnight,  and  hid  her  head  momentarily  on  his  bosom,  like 
a  bird  flying  back  to  the  secret  nest  built  there. 

Yes,  yes,  it  was  his  Jane ;  his  heart's  sickness ;  the  cause 
and  cure  of  it. 

In  his  bedroom  he  had  dreaded  meeting  her.  All  this 
night  of  self -interrogation,  torture  and  dull  despair  had 
warped  his  sense  of  the  actual,  confounding  reality  with  the 
apprehended;  giving  finality's  semblance  to  what  was  still 
to  come.  He  had  feared  the  sight  of  her  face,  for  what 
he  should  read  on  it ;  and  the  display  of  his  own  for  what  it 
might  reveal. 

But  now,  one  look  at  her  revived  him,  restored  his  cour- 
age. If  he  was  to  bear  this  trial  as  he  sought,  it  could 
only  be  with  Jane's  unconscious  help.  He  must  draw  his 
fortitude  from  her;  must  drink  the  laughter  rippling  spring- 
like from  her  lips ;  absorb  the  spiritual  significance  of  her  for 
sustenance.  Away  from  her  his  mind  would  drift,  his 
thoughts  run  down  to  the  motionlessness  of  despair.  He 
was  a  poor  piece  of  mortal  machinery,  needing  the  girl's 
fingers  to  wind  him  and  keep  him  going;  a  clock,  to  drone 
mechanically  the  moments  and  chime  the  hours ;  his  motive 
power,  the  leaden  weights  of  despair  tugging  on  the  cogged 
wheels  in  his  heart,  that  no  hand  but  the  girl's  could  raise. 
The  touch  of  her  embrace  —  cruel  though  it  was  —  the  clarid 
coolness  of  her  kisses,  the  quivering  of  her  blue  eyes,  served 

232 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  233 

to  rewind  the  run-down  weights  of  lead  within  him.  The 
beating  of  his  heart  stopped  briefly  dead  to  the  brisk  turns  of 
the  key,  it  is  true ;  leaden  despair  was  lifted  from  the  ground 
with  protesting  ratchet  and  jar  of  sullen  chain ;  but  the  tick- 
tack  pulse  was  stronger,  steadier,  when,  from  the  reversal  of 
movement,  it  reclaimed  its  beat;  and  the  chime  of  his  voice, 
when  he  used  it,  had  its  old  ring  to  comfort  and  deceive. 
This  ordeal  over,  he  told  himself,  he  would  dread  no  second. 
Solitude  should  be  shunned  like  alcohol :  an  intemperate 
drink  with  disastrous  consequences  for  such  as  he.  Already, 
in  contact  with  that  clear  unsuspecting  eye  he  began  to 
divest  himself  of  night's  feverish  thinking,  to  repudiate  his 
unworthy  wounded  thoughts,  as  men  blush  over  the  irrespon- 
sibilities of  their  youth ;  to  borrow  a  saner,  manlier  mood  to 
meet  the  circumstance.  Where  was  the  terrible  in  it,  so  to 
stir  and  incapacitate  him?  Must  beauty  ever  be  desired? 
Was  Berkeley  Hislop  better  kissed  than  he?  Or  better 
clasped?  Or  better  comforted,  besought,  endeared,  beamed 
on,  smiled  at,  laughed  over?  Nay,  in  this  great  wide 
province  of  sacred  guardianship,  he  had  her  all  his  own. 
Not  Berkeley  Hislop  nor  another  could  beat  down  his 
scepter.  Why  bear  love's  standard  into  this  other  kingdom, 
and  try  and  bind  two  realms  beneath  one  crown?  Each 
territory  had  its  privileges ;  each  love  its  throne.  She 
would  be  a  heart's  princess,  journeying  honored  from  one 
kingdom  to  the  other;  linking  their  affections,  tightening 
their  interests.  Secrets  unbreathed  to  Berkeley  would  be 
his ;  from  his  privileged  protective  place  he  would  watch 
the  current  of  her  life;  a  something  more  than  husband; 
something  higher ;  less  of  earth,  more  spiritual.  This  very 
love  that  took  her  from  him  in  name  and  seeming,  would 
draw  her  near  to  the  better  part  of  him  in  heart  and  deed. 
He  would  be  apotheosized;  these  years  of  fervent  guardian- 
ship, unstained  by  worldly  questions  of  requital,  pure,  im- 


234  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

personal,  dispassionate,  would  wreath  him  to  her  love  with 
thought  of  tender  gratitude.  Let  him  tint  his  resignation  to 
the  color  of  a  noble  revenge ;  regard  goodness  as  a  weapon ; 
and  guardianship  his  knightly  armor.  Look  to  it,  Berkeley 
Hislop,  for  the  consequences  of  this  secret  joust !  and  you, 
too,  Jane  Alston,  dearest  of  your  sex.  For  the  Doctor  will 
make  the  armor  of  his  guardianship  so  pure  and  bright  for 
your  protection ;  will  shield  you  so  tenderly ;  love  you  so 
dearly;  enter  into  your  heart  and  hopes  so  deeply;  yearn 
with  you  so  generously;  live  and  rejoice  with  you  so  daily, 
that  when  the  time  comes  to  leave  the  guardian's  shelter 
for  the  husband's  roof  there  will  be  tears  spilled  (God  grant) 
and  hands  clasped  and  fingers  wrung.  Vowed  to  such  a 
sweet  revenge,  he  seemed  girt  all  at  once  with  magnanimity ; 
his  laughter  had  a  holy  flow,  like  sacred  oil ;  above  his  brow 
he  was  conscious  of  a  saintly  kindling  warmth,  where,  all 
unseen  by  mortal  eye  not  purified  to  spiritual  discernment, 
his  nimbus  burned. 

Not  Jane  nor  any  other  could  have  read  Sir  Percival  be- 
hind the  Doctor's  brow,  or  seen  the  fine  mesh  of  spiritual 
mail  with  which  his  every  look  was  armed.  To  her  he  was 
the  dear  old  Numphy ;  "  good-looking,"  yes,  she  accorded 
him  the  title  frankly;  just  as  she  laid  her  'sixpence  on 
the  plate  in  church,  proud  (like  Jane)  that  it  showed  dis- 
tinct amid  so  many  coppers;  and  proud,  too,  that  she  could 
contribute  such  an  unmitigated  silver  adjective  to  the  offer- 
tory of  the  doctor's  virtues.  The  same  dear,  old,  good- 
looking  smileful  Numphy  —  that  Bertha  had  so  often  coveted 
—  whom  she  loved  like  an  elder  brother;  so  familiar  as  to 
seem  almost  a  part  of  herself  —  though  much  more  unani- 
mous with  her  than  herself  could  ever  be  —  and  yet  finely 
differentiated  for  the  purpose  of  argument  when  she  felt  in 
her  bosom  the  Jane-yearning  to  contradict.  The  dear  old 
NTumphy-brother  whom  she  could  kiss  and  tease  and  practice 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  235 

her  wiles  on,  and  coax  presents  and  indulgences  from,  so 
that  she  might  glory  in  her  prowess  and  bear  the  spoils  to 
Bertha,  and  tell  her :  "  What  do  you  think  Numphy  has 
promised  to  buy  me?"  and  enjoy  the  caress  of  Bertha's 
softly  envious  voice:  "Oh,  Jane  dear.  What  a  fortunate 
girl  you  are.  You  have  never  known  the  trial  of  being  one 
of  a  large  family,  with  four  brothers." 

Their  breakfast  was  of  Berkeley.  All  her  confidences  of 
last  night  were  repeated  to  the  tintinnabulation  of  those 
bangled  wrists  —  little  flexible  musicians  making  light  of  love ; 
laughing  at  the  passion  under  her  very  nose;  shaking  their 
fairy  timbrels  in  her  face,  so  that  even  the  man  within  the 
armor  asked  himself  with  one  of  those  twinges  of  bitter- 
ness :  "  Is  her  heart  like  that  ?  "  The  question  was  a  balm 
to  soothe  the  wound.  Stricken  mortals  will  summon  the 
interrogative  to  sustain  them  vicariously,  and  draw  solace 
thus  from  what  they  would  not  affirm.  This  second  time  the 
little  tongue,  running  glibly  in  a  track  prepared ;  following 
grief's  furrow  that  the  silver  plowshare  had  already 
graved,  and  that  his  thoughts,  playing  ceaselessly  over  them 
all  the  while,  like  breezes,  had  crusted  to  a  certain  surface 
hardness  —  this  second  time  the  little  tongue  was  easier  to 
bear.  There  was  no  talk  of  marriage  yet,  it  told  him  once 
again.  She  might  live  on  with  Numphy  here  for  Oh  .  .  . 
as  much,  in  probability  as  two  or  three  years.  Berkeley  said 
he  would  not  wish  to  take  her  away  until  he  could  offer  her 
a  fitting  home.  "  A  vicarage,  Numphy !  Think  of  that !  " 
Jane's  thoughts  were  like  goldfish  in  a  bowl  this  breakfast- 
time  ;  darting  here  and  there  on  flash  of  tail  or  wink  of  fin 
to  seek  their  nutriment, —  sometimes  mere  deceptive  bubbles 
that  they  sucked  in,  deluded,  for  solider  stuff;  inspiring 
questions  that  Numphy  found  hard  to  answer;  delivering 
confidences  that  he  found  harder  to  bear.  What  did  Num- 
phy think  of  Berkeley,  for  instance  ?  The  truth,  mind,  from 


236  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

the  bottom  of  his  heart !  All  sorts  of  answers  floated 
vaguely  in  his  mind.  A  voice  in  him  cried :  "  Praise  her 
choice.  Gild  the  man.  Sanctify  him.  Win  toll  of  her  love 
by  laudations."  A  graver  voice  said :  "  Have  a  care.  Every 
good  word  is  a  brick  for  the  building  of  his  temple.  Why 
should  you  act  the  captive  Israelite,  and  furnish  bricks  with- 
out straw  for  these  tyrannous  alien  taskmasters  of  love  ?  " 
A  third  voice,  a  whispering  sinuous  voice  like  a  snake  stir- 
ring the  dry  undergrowth  of  the  mind,  said :  "  Poison  your 
reply.  Drop  malice  in  the  word.  Dash  some  secret  vitriolic 
scorn  into  the  face  of  her  ideal,  for  the  corrosion  of  its 
features.  'No  acid  bites  more  deeply  into  a  woman's  pride 
than  derision  of  the  object  loved.  She  will  sharpen  her  eyes 
to  seek  the  justice  of  the  scorn  in  him  she  loves,  and  their 
sharpness  may  pierce  deeper  than  the  tongue  that  set  them 
seeking."  He  paused  between  these  three  counselors  and 
the  dictates  of  his  own  heart,  and  she  read  the  delay  with  a 
sweetheart's  swiftness.  "  You  don't  care  for  him,  Num- 
phy!" 

He  demurred  reproachingly.     "  I  never  said  that." 

"  But  you  hesitated." 

"  Surely  ...  a  little  hesitation  is  forgivable  in  a 
matter  touching  your  happiness  so  deeply,  Jane." 

"  If  you  had  liked  him  you  would  not  have  hesitated." 
She  bridled  defensively  with  arms  round  her  Berkeley;  at 
bay  even  to  a  hint  of  a  liking  not  completely  shared.  He 
had  to  trample  down  this  suspicious  spark;  extinguish  it 
flatly.  Berkeley  was  dear  to  him ;  doubly  dear,  now,  since  so 
dear  to  Jane.  Reassured,  she  had  a  concession  to  make. 
Berkeley  was  not  her  original  ideal  of  a  wooer.  She  and 
Bertha  had  exchanged  views  in  the  earlier  stages  of  their 
friendship,  as  to  the  kind  of  sweetheart  each  desired.  Jane 
said  hers  must  be  tall,  with  long  elegant  legs,  and  raven-black 
hair.  The  Doctor  fell  by  each  standard.  Bertha  said  she 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  237 

preferred  a  medium.  Tall  men  made  her  blush  and  feel  so 
awkward.  They  always  seemed  to  be  staring  down  on  you, 
and  when  you  took  a  peep  to  reassure  yourself  that  they  were 
not  looking,  your  eyes  were  always  caught  in  the  act.  Also, 
she  preferred  nut-brown  hair,  slightly  curled  about  the  neck 
and  temples.  She  said  it  looked  so  strong  and  frank  and 
manly.  Jane  decided  for  jet-black  eyes ;  Bertha  thought  a 
nice  gray  much  better  —  though  later  on  she  said :  "  Don't 
be  angry  with  me,  Jane.  I  think  I'd  like  to  have  your  jet- 
black  eyes  too,  if  you  don't  mind.  They  could  look,  as  you 
say,  so  deep  and  thrilling."  She  also  thought,  after  all,  that 
there  was  something  to  be  said  for  long  legs.  "  Though,  of 
course,"  she  pointed  out,  "  they  need  to  be  particularly  well 
used,  Jane.  I  should  want  them  haughty  and  debonnair,  so 
that  when  they  sat  down  on  a  low  sofa  they  did  not  scrape 
up  the  carpet  with  their  heels."  Both  Jane  and  Bertha  had 
decided  that  long  legs,  properly  displayed,  lent  a  pictorial  and 
elegant  effect  to  a  drawing-room ;  and  were  so  masculine  in 
their  firm  stride  (though  difficult  to  keep  up  with,  grace- 
fully) stepping  over  gates  and  palisades,  and  so  on,  in  the 
full  air.  However,  it  was  discerned  that  they  must  not 
harmonize  their  ideal  of  the  heroic  too  closely,  in  case  one 
—  answering  to  both  requirements  —  were  to  appear  and 
cause  feud  and  bitterness  between  them.  Both  vowed,  in 
that  case,  they  would  sacrifice  their  claim  to  the  other,  but 
Bertha  went  back,  for  safety,  to  brown  eyes.  ("  Very  dark 
brown,  though,  Jane ;  "  she  would  add  prudently.  "  Almost 
black  in  some  lights,")  And  four  sizes  shorter  in  legs. 
Jane  —  who  promised  at  that  time  to  be  slim  and  stately, 
much  more  than  her  friend  —  adhered  to  the  piercing  jet- 
black  orbs  and  the  debonnair  extremities.  By  the  latter 
standard  Berkeley  Hislop  failed.  But  in  her  love  of  him 
a  wondrous  magnanimity  crept  into  his  heart.  "  At  one 
time,  Numphy,"  she  told  the  Doctor,  "  I  never  did  think  I 


238  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

could  care  for  a  little  man."  He  winced.  "  It  seemed  too 
silly."  He  blinked  at  that  with  both  eyes.  "  But  now  I 
don't  mind  one  little  bit.  I  wouldn't  have  him  changed." 
It  appeared  she  had  renounced  black  eyes  and  lordly  legs  for 
Berkeley's  sake;  and  disliked  all  thought  of  what  the  world 
called  "  Good  looks,"  preferring  the  subtler  facial  harmonies 
of  intellect  and  virtue.  Before  these  worshipful  qualities  her 
own  assurance  sank  to  its  knees.  She  doubted  her  worthiness 
for  such  an  one  as  Berkeley.  All  the  voices  cried  on  the 
Doctor  at  once :  a  chorus.  He  rose,  formidable  in  resplen- 
dent armor,  and  protested  she  was  worth  a  dozen  Berkeleys. 
Aye !  a  hundred.  His  sudden  loyalty  touched  her  to  a  smile 
that  showed  her  pride  in  both  of  them.  She  looked  at  him 
for  a  while  as  though  requiting  him  by  the  steadfast  bright- 
ness of  her  glance  for  his  championship,  and  then  she  shook 
her  head  with  humility  for  herself,  as  though  the  cause  were 
less  than  good.  "  Berkeley  is  frightfully  clever,  Numphy !  " 
she  said,  giving  the  qualifying  adverb  three  r's,  and  under- 
scoring it  by  emphasis  as  many  times.  "  I  wish  I  knew 
Latin  and  Greek.  The  other  day  Berkeley  used  a  Latin 
quotation.  All  I  could  do  was  to  smile  and  bite  my  lip  at 
him,  as  though  I  understood.  Miss  Perritt  ought  to  have 
taught  me." 

"  Berkeley  knows  Hebrew  as  well,"  she  went  on,  "  and 
French  and  German  and  mathematics.  Oh !  Numphy,  what- 
ever would  he  say  if  he  thought  I  wasn't  too  sure  of  my 
twelve  times ! " 

"  If  he  loved  you  at  all,  he  would  love  you  all  the  better 
for  it,"  Numphy  told  her  stoutly. 

"  Do  you  know,  Numphy,"  she  said,  after  a  moment,  "  I 
begin  to  think  that  you  have  spoiled  me." 

It  was  the  sweetest  confidence  he  had  received  from  her 
since  the  falling  of  the  blow.  "  No,  no,  Jane,"  he  parried 
quickly,  but  not  so  forcibly  as  to  turn  altogether  so  sweet  a 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  239 

blade  aside,  for  it  was  a  delight  to  be  gently  wounded  with 
such  a  weapon,  "  No,  no." 

She  continued,  "  I  fear  it.  You  have  not  been  firm  enough 
with  me,  Numphy.  I  am  horribly  self-willed,  and  idle  and 
careless.  It  makes  me  almost  angry,  now,  to  think  how 
much  of  my  own  way  I  have  been  allowed  to  have.  You 
ought  to  have  been  stricter  with  me."  She  had  the  feeling, 
like  so  many  in  her  case  and  circumstance,  that  his  in- 
dulgence had  been  bought  out  of  her  well-being,  and  that  a 
firmer  hand  would  have  been  more  to  her  advantage.  "  Do 
you  know,"  she  said,  "  I  was  calculating  last  night  in  bed 
—  and  you  have  never  once  been  really  angry  with  me, 
Numphy." 

He  asked,  "  Who  could  be  angry  with  you,  Jane  ?  " 

She  cried,  "  That's  just  it.  You  did  not  take  me  seri- 
ously, Numphy.  You  have  treated  me  all  along  as  a  mere 
girl,  to  be  spoiled  and  petted,  and  now  I  am  having  to  pay 
for  it.  I  wanted  somebody  grave  and  serious  to  deal  with 
me.  I  feel  it.  Life  is  a  ...  well,  it  is  a  serious  thing. 
There  are  nearly  ten  thousand  people  in  Berkeley's  parish. 
There  is  much  distress,  and  the  church  is  in  need  of  repair. 
He  tells  me  the  indifference  among  the  poor  to  religious 
matters  is  dreadful  .  .  ." 

And  this  was  Jane. 

He  looked  at  her  incredulously  for  a  moment  through 
unfamiliar  eyes,  that  seemed  of  a  sudden  to  have  been  lent 
him  for  the  purpose  —  like  borrowed  spectacles  —  and  the 
brief  sight  of  her  serious  brow  and  her  earnest  lips,  and  the 
slight  heightening  of  color  about  the  cheek-cushions  that 
comes  when  the  self-conscious  speak  on  a  subject  more 
earnestly  than  is  their  wont  —  touched  the  springs  of  his 
mirth,  and  he  laughed,  coughing  correctively  next  moment, 
for  the  color  in  Jane's  cheek  deepened  and  her  nostrils  drew 
together. 


24o  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

"  Oh,  if  you  are  going  to  make  fun  of  serious  matters, 
Numphy,"  she  said. 

He  was  humbly  serious  in  a  moment.  Her  resolve,  ex- 
pressed, was  to  apply  her  heart  unto  wisdom,  that  a  vicar's 
wife  might  not  be  found  wanting  when  knowledge  was  ex- 
pected of  her. 

"  I  must  not  be  a  drag  on  him,  Numphy,  when  the  time 
comes,  but  a  true  helpmate."  She  said  it  with  a  clarid 
sincerity  and  a  tender  softening  of  her  eye,  so  that  all  the 
Doctor's  voices  were  silent  of  a  sudden,  lending  him  no  word 
to  patch  the  ensuing  pause.  Such  a  dedication  of  her  heart 
as  this  to  Berkeley's  service  touched  him  twice  —  in  his  love 
and  in  his  despair. 

Both  of  them  became  restless,  with  the  conclusion  of  their 
meal,  in  apprehension  of  the  expected  visit.  Now  that  it 
was  imminent,  the  Doctor  began  to  busy  himself  with  that 
dreadful  mine,  laid  underfoot,  awaiting  but  a  word  for 
explosion.  Should  he  draw  Berkeley  aside,  enlist  his  love 
as  a  recruit  to  serve  in  the  ranks  of  loyal  silence?  After 
declaration?  —  that  was  impossible;  such  a  course  would  be 
but  the  honesty  that  seeks  to  screen  no  blemishes  when  the 
bargain  is  concluded.  Before?  Impossible  too.  He  did 
the  act  in  thought  merely,  and  suddenly  its  consequences 
struck  him  with  such  vivid  reality  that  he  blazed  hot  to  his 
hair  roots.  There  seemed  no  escape  from  the  position  short 
of  a  wreckage  of  Jane's  happiness  involved  in  it.  He  was  a 
prisoner  under  capital  sentence  on  this  charge;  his  reprieve 
but  the  starting  place  for  a  new  train  of  terrors. 

At  last,  listening  and  waiting,  Jane  raised  a  quick  fore- 
finger in  the  air  and  cried,  "  The  gate !  I  hear  Uncle  Horace 
talking  to  Major.  Quick,  Numphy,  that  book !  "  He  was 
not  swift  enough  for  her,  and  laying  a  hand  on  his  knee  she 
reached  over  him  to  where  her  book  lay,  on  the  corner  of  the 
small  side-table  beyond  his  chair.  "  They  mustn't  think  we're 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  241 

waiting  for  them."  She  thrust  the  morning's  newspaper  into 
his  unready  hand.  "  There !  Read  away,  Numphy.  Sit 
back  and  cross  your  legs."  Jane  herself,  subsiding  on  a  chair 
by  the  big  table,  threw  the  book  open  and  assumed  in  an 
instant  a  convincing  attitude  of  interested  absorption.  Foot- 
steps and  voices  drew  near.  The  Doctor,  with  his  back  to 
the  window  and  his  nose  to  the  crowded  page,  heard  the 
footsteps  halt;  laughter,  softly  shared,  beyond  the  open  win- 
dow in  the  garden.  They  had  followed  the  short  cut  from 
the  vicarage  and  were  taking  indulgent  stock  of  Jane  through 
the  open  sunlit  window  from  the  garden  walk.  Jane,  deep 
in  perusal,  turning  a  page  with  most  sublime  unconscious- 
ness of  scrutiny,  lifted  her  eyes  to  the  pale  blue  sky  and 
yellow  sunlight.  The  look  sharpened  to  incredulity;  melted 
over  glad  surprise,  and  she  jumped  to  her  feet  with  the 
name  "  Bertha  !  "  as  interjection.  "  Whatever  has  brought 
you  out  so  early!  I  never  thought  to  see  you  at  this 
hour." 


16 


XXX 

WELL,  the  ordeal  was  not  so  dreadful  as  the  Doctor 
had  been  inclined  to  fear  —  expectation  proved  the 
painfuller  part  of  it.  In  the  presence  of  his  adversary  his 
courage  stood  uprigkt,  a  defiant  friendliness  sustained  him 
—  a  shining  quality  that  was  but  the  sun  agleam  upon  his 
armor. 

Jane,  who  had  run  to  admit  the  visitors,  slipped  deftly 
aside  at  the  door  with  Bertha,  on  some  whispering  expedi- 
tion of  mysterious  importance.  The  vicar  and  Berkeley 
came  forward  to  meet  the  Doctor  without  feminine  attend- 
ance :  both  the  auriferous  stoppings  in  the  vicar's  smile  were 
gleaming  to  a  look  of  mock  concern. 

"  A  nice  thing  this,  Dr.  Bentham ! "  he  cried,  as  soon  as  he 
caught  sight  of  the  Doctor's  figure  —  a  bulwark  to  the  fire- 
place. He  became  conscious  for  the  first  time  of  the  attenua- 
tion of  his  retinue,  turned  upon  Berkeley  with  a  sudden 
incredulous  look  beyond,  "  Where  is  she  ?  God  bless  my 
soul,  what's  got  them  both.  I  thought  they  came  in  with 
us." 

Berkeley,  holding  his  soft  felt  hat  piously  before  his  bosom 
in  both  hands,  professed  to  look  round,  too,  in  quest  of  the 
absentees,  and  "  believed "  they  were  gone  into  the  other 
room.  He  offered  some  suggestion  as  to  a  song. 

"  Song !  "  exclaimed  the  vicar.  "  Songs  at  this  time  of  the 
morning!  What  next!  Well,  well,"  he  capitulated  frankly 
with  the  incomprehensible  in  feminine  nature,  "  I  suppose 
we  shall  be  seeing  them  again  before  long,"  and  reverted  to 
his  old  overture.  "  A  nice  thing  this,  Dr.  Bentham :  you 

242 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  243 

never  told  me  your  niece  was  a  thief.  I  declare,  the  girl 
deserves  to  be  sent  to  prison." 

The  sinister  conjunction  of  names,  even  through  their 
envelopment  of  friendly  laughter,  dealt  two  hard  knocks 
against  the  Doctor's  conscience,  as  though  administered  by 
fleshless  knuckles,  a  sudden  warning  rap  from  the  skeleton 
in  his  cupboard. 

"  Surely !  "  he  said,  dissipating  the  inward  pang  with  a 
smile  that  traversed  both  faces  before  him,  "  not  quite  so 
bad  as  that,  vicar !  " 

The  vicar  shook  his  head.  "  Well,  well !  I  don't  know. 
Here's  Berkeley  been  telling  me  this  morning  before  break- 
fast that  Jane  has  stolen  his  heart.  It  came  as  a  complete 
surprise  to  me.  I  suppose  Jane  has  let  you  into  the  secret. 
I  never  knew  a  word  of  it  till  this  morning.  Here!  What 
have  you  got  to  say  for  yourself,  you  rascal?  Do  you  ex- 
pect your  uncle  to  pull  your  chestnuts  out  of  the  fire  for 
you?  Come  along  and  burn  your  own  fingers.  It's  your 
own  affair,  not  mine." 

Berkeley,  thus  directly  admonished,  laughed  a  lenient  ad- 
mission of  his  guilt:  a  youthful  phase  of  countenance  that 
rather  became  him.  The  Doctor,  fixing  friendly  but  pene- 
trative eyes  on  his  adversary,  was  frank  enough  to  acknowl- 
edge to  his  own  heart  that  the  Rev.  Berkeley  Hislop  was 
less  dry  of  cheek,  less  sharp  of  feature,  less  scant  of  hair 
about  the  higher  reaches  of  his  temple,  less  obviously  book- 
constructed,  and  younger  than  his  wounded  mind  had  ad- 
mitted him.  The  smile  upon  his  lips  —  that  drew  them 
apart  somewhat  diagonally,  was  markedly  reminiscent  of  his 
uncle  Horace  —  a  smile  of  the  reluctant  genus,  filtered 
through  a  dispositional  gravity,  like  a  spring  through  clay, 
yet  very  clear  and  agreeable  when  at  last  it  issued. 

"  I'm  afraid  Dr.  Bentham  will  incline  to  reverse  that  state- 
ment, uncle,"  he  said,  "  and  say  it  is  I  who  am  the  robber. 


244  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

Jane  has  told  you,  of  course,"  he  added  to  the  Doctor, 
who  answered,  smiling :  "  Jane  broke  the  news  to  me  last 
night." 

"  She  wished  to  be  the  first  to  do  so.  I  hope  you  won't 
say  the  news  is  bad  ?  " 

The  Doctor  told  him,  "  On  the  contrary.  The  news,"  he 
said  (and  said  it  with  a  sincerity  which  would  have  deceived 
a  much  more  acute  observer  than  Berkeley  Hislop)  rejoiced 
him  greatly.  He  coupled  it  with  the  fervent  hope  that  their 
two  happinesses  were  to  be  united  and  secured,  and  that 
the  contemplated  step  might  prove  wise  for  both  of  them. 
The  vicar,  itching  to  improve  the  occasion  on  Berkeley's 
behalf,  interposed :  "  Between  ourselves  .  .  ."  He  ap- 
proached his  face  towards  the  Doctor's  with  the  familiar 
gesture  for  a  confidence,  cutting  Berkeley  out  of  the  con- 
versation. "  Between  ourselves  .  .  .  your  niece  ought 
to  consider  herself  a  highly-favored  young  lady,  Dr.  Ben- 
tham.  I  don't  think  I'm  betraying  any  confidence  when  I 
tell  you  that  Berkeley  has  received  marked  encouragement 
from  several  important  wealthy  families  .  .  .  How 
many  pairs  of  hand-worked  slippers  did  you  get  last  Christ- 
mas, Berkeley  ?  " 

Berkeley  murmured  a  protesting :  "  Uncle !  —  I  never  wore 
them." 

"There,  there!  You  see  what  a  modest  fellow  he  is!" 
the  vicar  cried,  indicating  him  with  a  hand  that  seemed  to 
despair  of  ever  overcoming  the  quality.  "  And  yet  .  .  . 
if  I'm  to  speak  the  truth — "  he  approached  his  mouth 
towards  the  confidential  zone  once  more,  "  I  do  really  be- 
lieve he  could  have  had  a  baronet's  niece  —  and  very  little 
opposition,  too." 

Berkeley  protested  again,  but  the  vicar  astride  his  Pegasus 
and  deaf  of  an  ear,  was  a  difficult  rider  to  restrain.  Since 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  245 

the  truth  must  be  told,  he  would  confess  it,  this  attachment 
of  Berkeley's  caused  him  both  pleasure  and  disappointment. 
There  was  no  girl  for  whom  he  entertained  a  higher  regard 
than  Jane.  "  Indeed,  I  may  have  mentioned  it  before,"  he 
said,  "  that  she  holds  quite  a  niece's  place  in  my  heart."  He 
admitted  her  grace,  her  beauty  and  her  talents,  but  still 
.  .  .  marriage  was  subsidiary  nowhere  to  so  many  con- 
siderations as  in  the  church.  The  frankness  with  which  his 
uncle's  mind  pursued  this  pathway  to  its  extreme  end  was 
the  only  quality  that  made  the  subject  tolerable.  "  But  the 
silly  fellow  has  fallen  quite  in  love  with  her,"  he  concluded, 
"  and  she  with  him.  So  you  and  I,  Dr.  Bentham,  can  only 
submit."  In  the  course  of  his  conversation,  the  vicar,  whose 
mind  in  its  narrowing  circumference  of  age  and  infirmity, 
seemed  capable  of  admitting  no  relationship  other  than 
nephew  or  niece,  spoke  repeatedly  of  Jane  in  the  latter  cat- 
egory towards  the  Doctor. 

"  But  surely,"  Berkeley  took  up  at  length,  actuated,  it 
seemed,  by  the  Doctor's  unprotesting  acceptance  of  the  title, 
"  Jane  is  not  really  a  niece  of  yours,  Dr.  Bentham  ?  " 

The  Doctor  smiled  correctively,  "  No,  not  really." 

The  vicar,  sensible  of  an  interruption  from  some  quarter 
or  other,  cried  "  Eh  ?  "  in  turn  to  Berkeley  and  the  Doctor, 
revolving  a  face  of  pained  incomprehension,  not  knowing 
from  which  quarter  his  hearing  would  be  called  upon  to 
receive  its  intelligence.  "  What  is  it  ?  What  are  you  say- 
ing?" 

Berkeley  inclined  his  face  to  explain. 

"  Nothing,  uncle.  I  was  just  asking  Dr.  Bentham  .  .  . 
You  spoke  of  Jane  as  '  Your  niece,'  that's  all." 

The  vicar  repeated  "  Niece  ?  "  blankly,  as  though  his  mind 
could  see  no  sensible  reason  for  any  interruption  in  the 
word. 


246  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

"  Well,  well ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  Surely  I  ought  to  know 
she  is  his  niece  by  this  time.  I  have  called  her  that  since 
she  was  a  child." 

Berkeley  smiled  indulgently  towards  the  vicar,  the  smile 
that  makes  allowance  for  affliction,  or  for  elderly  faculties 
impaired. 

"  I  understood  ...  a  sort  of  cousin,"  he  said,  with 
the  slight  tone  of  interrogative  that  asks,  if  wrong,  to  be 
corrected. 

"  Scarcely  even  a  cousin,"  the  Doctor  said,  with  a  secret 
quickening  of  the  heart,  for  this  question  of  relationship  was 
as  an  insecure  handbridge  over  a  dark  void.  "  But  Jane's 
mother  was  connected  with  my  family  by  marriage  .  .  ." 
He  tongued  the  falsehood  glibly,  for  not  less  of  deception 
than  this  he  felt  would  avail  to  screen  the  girl  from  that 
closer  inquiry  which  must  for  a  certainty  ensue  should  all 
the  prop  of  relationship  be  withdrawn ;  and  even  this  slender 
buttress  of  half-cousinship  seemed  scarce  sufficient  of  itself 
to  sustain  the  reason  of  his  uncontested  guardianship  of  the 
girl.  He  concluded  his  statement  of  fact  and  fable,  that 
showed  no  breach  in  it  to  Berkeley.  ".  .  .  And  ever 
since  we  were  children  she  was  accounted  among  us  as  a 
cousin.  My  favorite  cousin,  indeed,  I  may  say." 

The  vicar,  listening  with  his  sound  ear  foremost,  and  his 
mouth  on  one  side  like  a  milk-can  on  some  area  rails,  caught 
the  word  incredulously. 

"  Cousin  ?  What  does  he  say,  Berkeley  ?  "  His  face  un- 
derwent a  rapid  cycle  of  changes,  as  intelligence  behind 
his  deafness  revolved,  and  stood  still  at  an  expression  of 
disillusionment,  in  which  reproach  showed  undisguisedly. 
"  A  cousin !  "  he  repeated.  "  Here  I  have  been  thinking  her 
a  niece  all  these  years.  You  have  never  corrected  me,"  he 
charged  the  Doctor.  There  was  unmistakable  injury  in  the 
voice,  and  disappointment  in  the  eye.  The  Doctor  defended 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  247 

himself.  "  On  the  contrary,  vicar,  I  assure  you  ...  I 
tried  to  let  you  know  on  quite  a  number  of  occasions." 

"  Well,  well,  I  never  heard  you,"  the  vicar  said.  "  I 
declare  it  comes  as  a  positive  surprise  to  me."  He  said  he 
supposed  it  was  all  the  same,  and  deplored  his  deafness  inci- 
dentally, but  the  fact  rankled.  "  It's  very  unsettling.  .  .  . 
After  all  these  years.  You  know  my  affliction;  I  make  no 
stranger  of  you.  But  everybody  seems  to  insist  on  speaking 
to  the  wrong  ear.  Then  she's  not  your  poor  sister's  child  ?  " 

The  Doctor  admitted  that  his  only  sister  died  in  early 
childhood. 

"  I  declare  I  don't  know  where  we  stand,"  the  vicar  pro- 
tested. "  It's  all  new  to  me.  Upon  my  word,  I  never  seem 
to  get  two  answers  alike  from  anybody.  If  it's  their  son  one 
day,  God  bless  me  it's  their  father  or  somebody  else's  brother 
next  time  I  see  them.  Then  Jane  is  not  related  to  you  any 
more  closely  on  the  father's  side?  —  He's  dead,  of  course. 
Yes,  yes.  Thank  God,  I  almost  feared  you  would  say  the 
fellow  was  alive.  It's  so  vexing  to  one's  pride  to  find  that 
every  opinion  one  holds  is  wrong.  And  this  deafness  only 
makes  it  worse.  Let's  see  .  .  .  surely  I  ought  to  re- 
member. Didn't  you  tell  me  ...  Don't  say  he  wasn't 
an  architect ! "  The  vicar's  mouth  twisted  to  an  almost 
pathetic  intensity  in  its  attendance  on  the  Doctor's  reply. 
"  No  ?  Not  an  architect  ?  What  in  the  name  of  fortune 
was  the  man?  (God  forbid  you  ever  have  my  affliction  to 
bear,  Berkeley)." 

"  As  a  matter  of  fact  " —  the  Doctor  felt  their  eyes  on  him 
like  weights  — "  I  believe  the  poor  man  was  what  would  be 
called  a  gentleman." 

The  vicar  cried  "  Eh  ?  —  a  what  ?  "  The  word  gentleman 
visibly  mollified  him,  though  he  admitted  in  these  days  it 
was  much  abused.  "  But  then,  of  course,  Dr.  Bentham  " — 
after  so  much  darkling  perplexity  his  smile  crept  out  like  a 


248  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

ray  of  sunlight  — "  Your  niece  " —  he  stopped  with  a  pained 
"  There !  "  as  though  the  gout  had  twinged  him.  "  You  see 
how  these  misconceptions  stick.  I  tell  you  I  shall  have  no 
end  of  trouble  in  getting  rid  of  the  idea.  Your  cousin  — 
but  no;  that  doesn't  sound  right,  somehow.  The  word 
cousin  carries  no  meaning  to  me.  I  suppose,  I  shall  be 
driven  to  call  her  Jane  now,  without  variation,  at  every  end 
and  turn."  He  picked  up  the  interrupted  thread.  "  Well, 
well.  Jane,  as  I  was  going  to  say,  is  her  own  guarantee  for 
antecedents.  Nobody  would  suspect  her  of  being  anything 
less  than  the  daughter  of  a  gentleman.  In  that  respect  I 
couldn't  have  wished  Berkeley  to  make  a  better  choice. 
She'll  do  credit  to  Lady  Frinton's  terrace."  The  pained  look 
took  hold  of  him  again.  "  And  the  worst  is  I've  been  seeing 
a  resemblance  between  the  two  of  you  all  this  time.  Most 
provoking.  I  only  told  my  housekeeper  a  week  ago  that  it 
was  easy  to  see  which  side  of  the  family  Jane  got  her  smile 
from.  The  silly  woman  agreed  with  me.  What  age  do  you 
say  the  poor  fellow  was  when  he  died  ?  " 

The  Doctor  drew  upon  his  inventive  resources,  suggesting 
the  early  thirties. 

"  Just  poor  Cyprian's  age,  if  he  had  lived,  Berkeley,"  said 
the  vicar,  with  a  sympathetic  shake  of  the  head. 

Berkeley  looked  suitably  sad.  "  Promising  fellow,  Dr. 
Bentham.  Terrible  shock  to  his  friends.  Would  have  been 
an  ornament  to  the  Bar.  Everybody  expected  him  to  take 
silk." 

Jane's  father  was  momentarily  obscured  behind  this  deeper 
trouble,  but  he  cropped  up  again;  a  sort  of  floating  spar, 
tossed  about  on  the  shifting  tide  of  the  vicar's  speech;  a 
menace  to  security  on  that  waterway;  now  and  again 
threatening ;  always  miraculously  removed.  Sometimes  near, 
sometimes  more  distant,  this  waterlogged  topic  of  Julian 
Alston  rolled  heavily  in  the  waves  of  conversation,  and  little 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  249 

by  little,  inappreciably  to  himself  as  it  seemed,  the  Doctor 
fended  off  the  dangerous  subject.  What  he  would  never 
have  dared  to  fabricate  in  one  breath,  or  in  cold  blood,  was 
accomplished,  to  his  subsequent  dismay,  in  a  series  of  mere 
preservative  impulses.  Julian  Alston  was  dead  and  buried, 
lying  in  some  far-off  Indian  grave.  His  life  had  been  brief ; 
certain  discordancies  were  subtly  hinted  at  to  mar  the  course 
of  it.  Before  his  death  his  wanderings  and  temperament 
had  alienated  him  sadly  from  the  best  of  wives.  It  is  to  be 
confessed  the  Doctor  lied  with  skill.  Threads  of  thin  truth 
indeed  were  cunningly  drawn  upon,  to  lend  substance  to 
falsehood;  the  spiritual  essences  of  the  facts  extracted  and 
metamorphosed  to  a  quality  that  seemed  to  preclude  all 
further  inquiry  as  an  irreverent  thing. 

Thus  the  interview  that  the  Doctor  had  dreaded  ran  its 
course  and  drew  to  a  close,  leaving  him  the  ultimate  task  of 
quartering  the  ground  traversed,  and  marking  mentally  the 
points  to  which  he  stood  committed.  Like  most  reluctant 
liars  he  found  in  retrospect  that  he  had  outstripped  inten- 
tion. This  screening  was  oppugnant ;  not  the  passive  thing 
of  inference  by  silence  that  he  had  intended,  but  a  militant 
defense.  For  such  there  was  no  pardon.  His  sense  of  the 
enormity  of  the  sin,  now  that  it  stood  committed,  led  him  to 
contemplate  confession  of  it,  just  as  before  the  thought  of 
confession  precipitated  him  into  the  sin.  The  function  of 
conscience  cannot  be  pre-stimulated ;  men  temporize  with  its 
penalties  as  the  Peterwick  stationmaster  handles  his  bees, 
cheerfully  awake  to  the  sting;  made  careless,  withal,  by 
much  custom.  Now  that  this  swarm  of  winged  falsehoods 
buzzed  about  their  master,  driving  their  formic  spurs  into 
his  conscience,  he  was  seized  with  the  sudden  panic  for 
preservation.  He  would  confess,  call  these  two  men  back; 
undo  these  words.  The  summons :  "  One  moment  —  before 
you  go,"  was  as  near  to  his  lips  as  his  own  breath,  drawn 


250  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

extra  deep  for  the  pronouncement.  The  breath  passed 
soundlessly  by;  a  ghost  only;  the  living  part  of  it  seemed 
to  die  in  his  throat.  For  the  ill  was  done.  The  lie  alone 
would  lend  a  blackness  to  the  sordid  truth  suppressed;  give 
the  living  Julian  Alston  a  dreadfuller  frame  for  the  presenta- 
tion of  that  sinister  eye.  And  Jane  .  .  .  Between  his 
love  of  her  and  his  hatred  of  everything  that  went  to  the  com- 
pounding of  fraud,  his  conscience,  circling  aimlessly  like  a 
lost  pigeon,  settled  down  at  last  on  the  midway  branches  of 
procrastination,  watching  alternately  the  two  horizons. 
Honor  was  already  besmirched,  but  his  love  of  her  at  least 
was  pure ;  which  shows  eloquently  how  the  whitest  flame 
can  forge  an  ill  weapon,  and  good  motives  bring  forth  a  bad 
progeny.  Thus,  whatever  preachers  of  the  Berkeley  Hislop 
type  may  reclaim,  much  of  the  beauty  of  this  earthly  world 
is  made  by  the  sin  in  it;  and  moral  beauty  will  disappear 
(we  may  believe)  with  the  slow  preponderance  of  righteous- 
ness. For  righteousness,  perfected,  will  become  but  as  a  fine 
instrument,  mechanically  designed,  and  goodness  will  lose  all 
significance  when  it  ceases  to  be  the  flower  of  mortal  sin- 
fulness;  as  the  soul  of  art  is  crushed  in  the  wheels  of  the 
machine  whose  function  is  faultlessly  to  simulate  it.  A 
perfect  rectitude  would  be  as  impossible  in  practice  as  a 
music  compounded  of  perfect  harmony;  dissonance  is  as 
necessary  to  the  warmth  of  soul  as  it  is  to  glow  of  musical 
color.  So,  righteousness  may  be  conceived  in  theory  as 
perpetually  tending  to  its  own  destruction,  since  the  perfec- 
tion of  it  is  a  mere  frigid  equipoise  of  emotions;  such  an 
Arctic  balance  of  passions  as  will  freeze  the  palpitating  soul 
of  life  to  death,  and  substitute  an  uncalculating  rote  —  in 
this  last  supreme  Polar  region  of  rectitude  —  for  that  equa- 
torial sinfulness  which  has  been  productive  of  so  many  beau- 
tiful offenses.  All  which  is  inspired  by  thoughts  of  the 
Sunfleet  Doctor's  untruthfulness,  since  there  are  those,  I 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  251 

am  aware,  who  hold  that  with  the  first  falling  of  the  standard 
of  truth,  the  battle  is  lost  and  Satan  counts  his  own. 

They  rejoin  Jane  and  Bertha,  and  for  awhile  the  Doctor's 
torture  is  pleasantly  varied.  He  has  to  bear  the  lashing  of 
the  vicar's  mock-reproaches  to  the  girl  for  her  larceny  of  his 
nephew's  heart;  has  to  witness  the  kindling  of  Jane's  cheek 
beneath  the  pleasurable  raillery;  her  fugitive  glances  at 
Berkeley,  so  full  of  proprietory  submission,  that  he  ejects 
from  his  perception  with  a  smiling  violence,  casting  the  sight 
aside  as  though  it  were  a  snake  —  though  never  before  the 
reptile  has  bitten  him. 

Berkeley  leaves  for  Growingham  this  afternoon.  Mean- 
while his  uncle  is  to  perambulate  him  through  Sunfleet  and 
gather  up  the  fragments  of  homage  to  his  last  night's  ser- 
mon. Already  the  vicar  begins  to  show  anxiety  for  motion, 
and  to  cast  his  preparatory  "  Well,  well's,"  like  the  seeds  of 
departure.  Jane  and  Bertha  are  to  accompany  these  two, 
and  exchange  whispered  confidences  at  gates,  while  the  vicar 
is  heard  "  between  ourselves  "  to  give  his  opinion  of  Berke- 
ley's talents  to  anxious-faced  women,  whose  nostrils  are 
too  preoccupied  with  oven  odors,  and  ears  made  anxious 
with  internal  sounds  of  sizzling,  to  appreciate  these  talents 
even  if  they  were  all  that  the  vicar  claims  for  them.  He  will 
be  heard  to  impart,  too,  here  and  there,  as  a  momentous  and 
solemn  secret,  that  Berkeley  is  leaving  his  heart  behind  him ; 
the  vicar  commences  to  believe  they  have  a  young  lady  to 
thank  for  the  rare  privilege  of  last  night's  sermon.  Well, 
well.  He  couldn't  have  wished  his  nephew  to  choose  more 
wisely;  the  niece  of  their  esteemed  doctor,  and  the  accom- 
plished daughter  of  a  (God  bless  him!  the  name's  gone 
again)  of  a  gentleman  well  known  in  India  —  one  of  our 
indomitable  Empire-builders. 

All  this  will  lend  Jane  a  pretty  pride,  and  make  a  fine 
arch  to  her  neck.  Her  eyes  will  be  bright  beneath  disdain- 


252  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

ful  lids,  and  she  will  tread  queenly  the  Sunfleet  roads  as 
though  pages  carried  her  train.  And  the  vicar,  the  personal 
conductor  of  this  parochial  tour,  will  halt  suddenly  in  his 
progress  at  times  to  cry :  "  God  bless  me !  Niece  did  I  say ! 
Why  didn't  you  correct  me,  Berkeley?  Stop  .  .  . 
Where  is  the  woman?  Well,  well.  We  can  call  on  our 
way  back.  Most  provoking.  ...  I  told  him  what  it 
would  be." 

Before  the  Doctor  shakes  farewell  hands  with  this  felt- 
hatted  worker  of  his  wretchedness,  to  mount  the  Raleigh  for 
his  morning's  round,  he  asks  Berkeley  what  time  he  takes 
train  from  Peterwick.  Berkeley  says  he  is  putting  himself 
at  the  mercy  of  the  Beachington  'bus.  Whereat  the  Doctor 
says :  "  Nonsense.  I've  only  a  short  round  this  morning. 
The  mare'll  be  quite  fresh.  Jane  had  better  drive  you." 
Berkeley  says :  "  O,  really.  ...  I  hadn't  meant.  .  .  . 
It's  extremely  kind  of  you  ...  I  didn't  wish  .  .  ." 
and  looks  at  Jane  with  a  look  that  is  only  bearable  to  the 
Doctor  because  it  is  the  fruit  of  his  own  magnanimity.  He 
feels  a  nobler,  better,  purer  man  for  this  beautiful  act  of  self- 
abnegation.  A  bright-eyed  Jane  says :  "  Won't  you  drive  us, 
Numphy  ?  "  with  a  sudden  generosity  that  comes  of  grati- 
tude. Numphy  says  he  has  some  cases  in  Sunfleet  to  attend 
to,  and  Jane  has  more  policy  than  to  ask  which,  or  where. 
It  is  settled  and  Jane  looks  proud  and  radiant,  and  Berkeley 
pleased,  and  Bertha  smilingly  sentimental ;  and  the  Doctor 
shakes  hands  again  and  wishes  his  guest  a  pleasant  journey, 
and  assumes  his  brisk  professional  step,  and  springs  up  into 
the  waiting  trap,  and  rolls  down  the  drive  beneath  the  over- 
hanging branches,  over  a  yellow  carpet  of  chestnut  and 
sycamore  leaves.  It  is  some  comfort  to  him  to  reflect  that 
Berkeley  Hislop  will  be  one  hundred  and  thirty  odd  cross- 
country miles  away  by  nightfall. 


XXXI 

THE  history  of  a  man  in  contest  with  a  hopeless  love  is 
a  history  of  the  centuries.  Whole  dynasties  of  thought 
prevail  and  run  successively  their  regal  course:  tyrants  of 
melancholy,  despots  of  bitterness,  emperors  of  holy  peace, 
kings  of  crimson  courage  —  all  in  turn  aspire  for  conquest 
of  the  Doctor's  mind,  and  lead  their  hosts  to  battle.  He 
goes  to  bed  under  the  sway  of  some  beneficent  ruler;  he 
wakes  up  next  morning  beneath  the  rod  of  an  usurping 
tyrant,  who  crushes  thought  with  groaning  imposts,  and 
levies  grievous  taxes  upon  hope. 

At  times  the  Doctor  seeks  to  sulk  in  heart;  is  anxious  to 
find  a  pretext  for  hating  Jane,  and  cannot.  Hints  of  her 
indifference  strike  him  wretched ;  proofs  of  her  affection 
make  him  just  as  wretched,  because  that  she  has  robbed 
him  first  of  the  wherewithal  to  requite  it.  Love  knows  no 
coinage  but  its  own ;  he  is  outraged  at  this  compulsion  to 
tender  the  spurious  currency;  dreads  she  will  detect  it,  and 
yet  feels  anger  that  she  accepts  the  false  coin  with  such 
complacency  and  unscrutinizing  faith.  Is  she  blind?  She 
never  tests  the  coin.  He  cannot  esteem  it  a  compliment  to 
the  forgery;  it  is  a  token  rather,  of  how  little  she  pays  him 
heed,  how  little  he  weighs  of  consequence  in  her  esteem. 
People  do  not  ring  coppers  and  the  smaller  silver,  only  gold. 
He  knows  there  is  not  a  word  of  Berkeley  Hislop's  but  will 
be  rung  a  hundred  times  for  the  pure  joy  of  hearing  its  value 
repeat  itself  musically  in  a  thrill  of  pure  love-metal ;  not  a 
coin  but  will  be  tried  with  her  small  white  teeth,  bitten  for 
love,  to  be  assured  by  hard  test  of  a  worth  undoubted.  Nay, 
harder  still  to  bear  than  the  surety  of  it  is  the  fact  that  she 

253 


254  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

makes  him  party  to  its  probate;  brings  each  coin  to  ring 
before  him;  strikes  it  down  upon  his  sensitive  heart;  shows 
him  unblushingly  a  picture  of  the  look  that  went  with  the 
word;  constitutes  this  love-sick  wretch  a  twin  to  her  own 
happiness.  Love  has  no  sight,  no  thought,  no  mercy. 

He  believed  he  had  been  armed.  Pah!  This  self-forged 
armor  is  as  vulnerable  as  the  paper  helm  and  card  cuirass, 
and  pasteboard  make-believe  of  childhood.  And  love  is  as 
fickle  as  a  child ;  coaxed,  will  play  itself  with  these  toys  into 
a  state  of  self-cajoled  content;  frustrated,  will  cast  them 
scornfully  aside,  their  paper  pretentiousness  a  thing  of 
mockery. 

Strangely,  and  cruelly  too,  this  love  that  took  Jane  from 
him  drew  her  closer ;  he  seemed  necessary  to  reflect  her 
happiness,  as  the  vanity  glass  to  mirror  her  hair.  He  was 
sensible  of  being  his  rival's  proxy.  She  gave  him  kisses  that 
were,  he  knew,  for  Berkeley;  practiced  looks  of  ultra-ten- 
derness upon  him  that  had  Berkeley's  visage  at  the  extreme 
far-end  of  them  like  a  face  viewed  through  an  inverted  tele- 
scope. When  they  sat  at  table  he  was  aware,  at  times,  that 
Bishops  were  present  by  the  way  she  extended  her  fourth 
finger  in  drinking  from  the  cup,  or  pouring  out  the  tea;  she 
has  smiled  upon  him  with  the  condescension  for  one  of  Berk- 
eley's churchwarden's ;  or  the  organist,  Christianly  suffered. 
Grace  before  meat  and  thanksgiving  after  were  reinstated 
to  their  former  place  at  meals,  and  not  left  to  be  honored 
at  irregular  periods  by  a  cry  of  conscience  on  Jane's  part: 
"  Numphy !  Whenever  did  we  last  say  grace !  "  Jane  read, 
he  knew,  each  night  and  morning  a  chapter  out  of  the  Bible 
—  to  prepare  her  for  the  seriousness  of  life  —  and  Bertha 
had  promised  to  do  the  same.  A  wave  of  piety  was  notice- 
able. "  But  promise  me  you  won't  read  more  than  one, 
dear,"  Jane  demanded  of  her.  "  Don't  be  mean  and  get 
ahead  of  me,  Bertha."  Thoughts  even  of  family  prayers 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  255 

occurred  to  Jane,  as  a  pious  responsibility,  with  Anne  and 
Hester  kneeling  respectfully  against  the  chairs  by  the  door ; 
their  noses  to  the  wall,  and  the  soles  of  their  feet  turned 
upward  for  comparison  towards  the  breakfast  table,  where 
Numphy  was  pictured  reading  psalms  and  collect  out  of 
some  devotion  book.  Jane  had  seen  this  done  with  fine 
effect  at  Mrs.  Percivale's,  where  the  domestic  staff  trooped 
in  twice  a  day,  morning  and  evening,  (each  in  order  of 
seniority)  and  out  again.  The  idea  was  only  vaguely  raised. 
Numphy  gave  it  scant  encouragement.  Anne,  he  plainly 
hinted,  would  kneel  at  her  time  of  life  (with  draughts  from 
under  the  door)  for  nobody;  and  would  least  of  all  submit 
to  be  read  at  by  him.  The  subject  dropped.  It  raised  the 
thought  uneasily  within  him  whether  this  influence  of  Berke- 
ley over  Jane  was  for  her  betterment.  Natures,  like  flowers, 
do  not  thrive  in  every  soil.  Was  this  pious  loam  the  prop- 
er bedding-place  for  such  a  plant?  He  loved,  despite  the 
fault  admitted,  the  willful  spirit  in  her  that  tossed  its  blos- 
soms against  bondage;  that  argued  authority  and  made  its 
insubordination  sweet.  Were  these  graces  to  be  withdrawn 
from  her ;  cropped,  suppressed  ?  Was  the  old  Jane  of  sweet 
impulse  to  give  way  to  some  orthodox-framed  creature;  to 
have  the  buds  of  impulse  church-nipped;  her  character 
trained  to  a  prim  symmetricalness  on  a  wall-trellis  of  formal 
piety?  He  prayed  not. 

It  is  only,  after  all,  his  slumbering  jealousy  that  quickens 
him  to  a  sense  of  disappointment  sometimes  in  the  revealed 
quality  of  Jane's  love,  when  the  light  within  her  rests  upon 
some  prosaic  thought  incomprehensible  to  man.  For  the 
essential  difference  between  the  results  of  love  on  the  two 
sexes  is  this,  that  it  inspires  a  man  to  poetry,  a  woman  to 
prose.  A  man  casts  practical  considerations  aside,  seeks  to 
intoxicate  himself  on  the  passion ;  a  woman  bursts  illusion 
like  a  sheath,  and  becomes  practical  to  a  fault.  And  how 


256  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

sweet,  the  Doctor  is  aware,  would  be  this  poetical  practicality 
if  he  were  only  the  inspirer  of  it. 

As  it  is,  he  is  a  proxy.  She  clings  to  him  but  that  she 
may  have  her  Berkeley  closer.  Each  night  she  will  not  go 
to  bed  until  he  has  ceded  that  hour  or  more  of  bitter-sweet 
communion.  She  lays  his  pipe  to  hand,  brings  his  tobacco 
in  its  lidded  brown  jar;  coaxes  him  to  his  inevitable  fate  like 
a  siren.  If  he  is  called  out  —  and  the  occasions  are  now 
more  nightly  numerous  —  she  warms  him  against  the  in- 
clement night  with  her  sympathy;  helps  to  fasten  with  her 
own  fingers  the  great  bone  buttons  of  his  dreadnought; 
winds  the  scarf  about  his  neck,  and  consigns  him  solicitously 
to  the  elements.  The  deed  recalls  his  mother.  Under  her 
ministration  he  had  been  wont  to  fret  at  heart  because  he 
knew  she  was  dismissing,  not  the  dignified  doctor,  but  her 
own  dear  boy.  Again,  he  has  the  chafing  sore  at  heart. 
This  is  still  no  doctor, —  or  so  he  feels —  but  Berkeley 
Hislop,  dispatched  on  some  nocturnal  mission  to  the  soul- 
sick.  He  sees  it  in  Jane's  face, —  this  admiration  silently 
transferred.  Perhaps  it  is  blowing  knife-blades  from  the 
north-east;  perhaps  a  southerly  squall  is  slashing  foot-long 
raindrops  through  the  darkness,  so  that  Jane's  profile,  haz- 
arded beyond  the  door,  has  to  be  hurriedly  withdrawn.  Per- 
haps there  is  some  sleet.  So  much  the  better;  Berkeley's 
heroism  is  the  more  admired.  She  says,  "  How  good  and 
cheerful  you  are ;  Numphy,  to  be  sure."  It  is  a  great  tribute 
to  Berkeley,  for  the  Doctor  never  complains. 

Sweet  above  its  bitterness  though  this  nightly  session 
with  Jane  may  be,  he  is  not  always  sorry  for  the  necessity 
to  leave  her.  It  makes  him  sensible  of  a  manhood ;  stern 
thoughts  of  duty  substitute  these  softer  hankerings  of 
love.  For  can  he  sit  beside  her  and  not  love?  Sometimes 
he  is  weak;  her  kindness  cruel  —  stinging  him  to  the 
verge  of  a  retort  he  dares  not  utter,  but  must  turn  in  upon 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  257 

himself,  like  nails  into  the  palm ;  a  pain  for  pain's  suppression. 

She  wondered  one  night,  seated  close  by  his  side,  why 
Numphy  had  never  married.  She  had  asked  the  question, 
he  remembered,  as  a  child ;  but  it  had  been  easier  to  parry 
then.  Now  it  made  him  wince,  and  his  smile  above  it  was 
but  the  facial  eddy  of  a  stirred  bitterness,  the  laugh  of  a 
soul  in  motion.  Why?  Oh,  he  did  not  know  why.  Why 
should  he  have  married  ?  "  Numphy  .  .  ."  Her  face 
descends  from  its  height  persuasively  to  woo  confidences; 
the  blue  eyes  are  melting;  the  red  lips  kissably  close. 
"  Were  you  ever  in  love  ?  Tell  me."  She  is  ripe  for  secrets. 

He  laughs  the  question  aside,  and  yet  it  affords  him  a 
bitter  pleasure,  too,  to  know  she  will  return  to  it. 

"  What  nonsense,  Jane !  " 

"  But  were  you  ?  "  She  is  more  serious  in  supplication. 
He  finds  it  easy  to  be  serious  too,  and  sighs.  Ancient  his- 
tory seems  volumed  in  the  sigh,  as  though  it  bound  the  cen- 
turies. "  What  do  you  think,  Jane  ? "  He  would  like 
even  in  his  bitterness,  to  know  whether  this  persecuting 
loveliness  conceives  him  human ;  flesh  and  blood,  or  merely  a 
formula. 

"  I  remember  asking  Anne,  once,"  Jane  says  confidentially. 
"  And  Anne  told  me  you  had  had  more  sense.  She  was 
quite  angry  with  me,  Numphy.  But  I  don't  know  .  .  ." 
She  withdraws  her  gaze  to  calculate  probabilities  on  his 
countenance.  After  a  while  the  face  swoops  close  to  his 
own.  "  But  you  were  .  .  .  weren't  you  ?  —  Say  you 
were,  Numphy;  just  for  company's  sake." 

He  surrenders  to  her  appeal  and  tells  her  sadly,  "  Twice." 
This  multiplication  of  the  passion  seems  to  cancel  all  Jane's 
fervor  for  it.  Plainly  love  is  one  of  the  qualities  which 
cannot  —  she  thinks  —  be  multiplied  without  weakening  the 
multiplicand.  "  Oh,  never  twice !  Numphy !  "  she  cries. 
Of  a  surety  one  of  these  two  loves  must  have  been  treachery 
17 


258  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

to  the  other.  So  much  he  sees  denoted  in  her  face.  The 
look  of  genuine  disappointment  in  it  adds  to  his  bitterness. 
One  unrequited  love  might  have  made  a  hero  of  him;  two 
do  but  make  of  man  a  fool. 

"  But  not  both  at  one  time,  Numphy ! "  she  expostulates. 

He  assures  her  there  was  a  lapse  of  years  between  these 
passions.  She  pleads :  "  Tell  me  all  about  it,  Numphy." 
He  says,  "  Some  other  time,  Jane."  "  Not  now,  Numphy  ?  " 
She  is  a  temptress  born ;  she  wooes  him  for  his  secret  terribly. 
Eve  and  she  and  the  Serpent  seem  one.  He  smiles  an 
aggravating  obduracy.  She  tries  a  bribe.  "  Numphy 
.  .  .  if  you  will  tell  me  this  ...  I  will  tell  you 
something  Bertha  told  me.  It  was  a  secret." 

He  is  dismayed.     "  Jane !  Have  you  no  honor !  " 

Oh,  woman,  woman!  All  your  fine  qualities  seem  in 
perpetual  tangle,  like  skeins  of  silk  raveled  in  a  careless 
work-basket;  the  virtues  plain  to  see,  but  twisted  and  in- 
extricable, mocking  man's  patience  to  unpick.  She  laughs 
consciousness  of  her  delinquency,  who  so  late  regarded  love 
as  a  quality  almost  too  sacred  to  duplicate,  and  exclaims, 
"  Well  .  .  .  there's  no  harm  in  it  —  to  You,  Numphy. 
I  tell  you  everything.  Heaps  more,  I  believe,  than  I  ever 
tell  Bertha."  He  is  mollified,  despite  his  sense  of  high 
honor.  This  tribute  of  preferential  favor  —  even  tainted 
with  feminine  disloyalty  —  is  balm  for  a  wounded  heart. 
But  his  repudiation  of  the  bribe  makes  Jane  the  eagerer  to 
implicate  him  in  the  secret ;  seeking  now  to  press  upon  him 
as  a  gift  what  she  had  stipulated  as  a  reward.  "  It  was 
only  — "  she  began,  but  he  put  up  a  defensive  hand.  "  No, 
no,  Jane.  I  won't  listen  to  you.  A  secret  is  a  secret." 
She  laughs  again  behind  a  busy  eye,  that  is,  he  knows, 
merely  making  a  reconnoissance  to  learn  the  force  of  his  de- 
fenses and  ascertain  his  vulnerable  quarter. 

Besides,  he  has  already  a  suspicion  what  the  secret  is. 


XXXII 

AND  it  presses  on  him,  hostile  to  his  peace.  He  sees 
glints  of  it  through  Jane's  laughter,  catches  sight  of  it 
in  her  full-eyed  looks  upon  him  —  whole  companies  of  the 
enemy's  cavalry,  so  to  speak,  that  glide  away  into  their 
ambush  and  leave  him  doubly  watchful  and  apprehensive. 
This  question  of  his  celibacy  crops  up  again,  for  marriage  is 
now  with  Jane  a  golden  topic.  She  speculates  upon  his 
single  state,  and  the  cause  of  it.  Was  Numphy  ever  really 
engaged  to  be  married?  This  much  he  is  prepared  to  admit 
to  her  —  he  was.  Jane  had  thought  so.  And  why  —  who 
was  it?  Which  of  them  had  —  ? 

"  I  will  tell  you,  Jane,"  he  says.  "  There  are  some  men 
that  women  never  take  seriously,  or  think  anything  of."  He 
pulled  at  his  pipe.  "  I'm  one  of  them." 

She  denied  it;  denied  it  strenuously.  It  was  not  a  bit 
true.  Anne  had  told  her  that  he  could  have  been  married  a 
hundred  times  if  he  had  wished.  And  Jane  herself  knew 
what  people  thought  about  him  all  round  the  district. 

"  As  a  doctor,"  he  said  bitterly.  Once  he  had  thought 
this  the  proudest  sort  of  estimation,  and  chafed  against  a 
liking  built  solely  on  his  human  qualities.  Now —  How 
strangely  men  change! 

"  No,  no ;  not  as  a  doctor,"  Jane  contested ;  "  but  as  a  — 
You  know,  Numphy;  for  yourself."  She  took  advantage 
of  his  smiling  defenselessness.  "  Do  you  know  what  Bertha 
told  me  —  about  you  ?  " 

He  sprung  up  to  his  protection,  hot  of  face.     "  No,  no, 

259 


26o  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

Jane.  It  was  a  secret.  I  won't  listen  to  you.  You  have 
tried  twice.  It  is  mean,  unfair." 

She  laughed,  convicted.  "  Oh,  very  well,  Numphy." 
But  the  fortress  was  breached,  and  she  knew  it;  his  de- 
fenses were  penetrated.  The  secret,  even  without  articula- 
tion, was  a  secret  no  longer.  He  could  not  accuse  her  of 
betrayal,  and  yet  Bertha  had  been  betrayed. 

In  a  sense,  of  course,  he  had  known  it.  The  secret  was 
but  as  a  face  pressed  wanly  against  a  window-pane.  Ever 
since  that  fateful  night  when  Jane  first  poured  her  poison 
in  his  ear  he  had  been  conscious  of  a  web  as  fine  as  gossa- 
mer which  was  being  spun  in  the  air  about  him  —  a  web  of 
whispers  and  glances,  of  smiles  and  blushes,  the  busy  work 
of  two  weavers.  At  first  he  had  brushed  the  thought  away 
from  him  for  self-delusion,  and  turned  a  stern  face  and  a 
hard  eye  to  confront  reality  through  this  morbid  meshwork 
of  imagination.  But  soon  he  saw  the  threads  of  the  net 
were  actual,  and  woven  from  some  point  external  to  him- 
self. Jane  began  to  eulogize  her  friend  —  sought  to  engage 
him  in  discussions  on  her  merits.  Knowing  the  loyalty  of 
woman,  as  exemplified  in  the  case  of  Berkeley  Hislop,  he 
was  guarded.  Jane  might  terminate  some  eulogy  of  Bertha 
with  cunning  interrogation :  "  Don't  you  think  so,  Num- 
phy?" "I  am  sure  you  could  not  have  a  better  friend, 
Jane,"  he  would  answer.  "  She  seems  devoted  to  you." 
"  She  is  devoted  to  other  people  too,"  Jane  told  him.  "  Her 
uncle  will  certainly  miss  her  when  she  goes,"  the  Doctor 
said  quickly.  Jane  looked  up  and  laughed.  "  Nobody  but 
her  uncle  ?  "  He  turned  the  topic. 

But  not  alone  in  speech  with  Jane  was  he  conscious  of 
this  subtle  peril  a-weaving.  A  slightly  perceptible  embarass- 
ment  began  to  sheath  Bertha  from  him  as  with  a  fine  film ; 
she  met  his  eye  directly  less  and  less,  and  yet  he  knew  she 
took  a  deeper  stock  of  him  through  that  secret  vision  which 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  261 

is  the  added  sense  in  woman.  All  that  inner  history  con- 
cerning Berkeley  Hislop's  courtship  so  faithlessly  and  shame- 
lessly made  known  to  him  by  his  bride-to-be,  shed  the  light 
of  a  flickering  irony  on  his  own  case,  making  it  dark  and 
dimly  visible  by  turns.  He  was  not  ignorant  of  Jane's  pre- 
texts to  leave  them  bashfully  twain,  and  Bertha's  quick- 
drawn  breath  when  Jane  rose  to  do  so,  as  though  her  going 
were  a  desertion  or  betrayal.  Jane  could  not  leave  them 
thus  for  ever  so  brief  a  time  but  Bertha  commented  on  the 
length  of  it ;  would  greet  Jane's  return  with  a  notable  relief, 
as  though  her  absent  friend  had  been  in  danger.  "  Jane ! 
what  a  time  you  have  been.  I  was  just  coming  to  look  for 
you."  And  in  the  days  succeeding  Berkeley  Hislop's  de- 
parture, days  of  October  and  November,  when  the  skies  be- 
came gray  and  watery  and  the  autumn  mists  rolled  up,  and 
the  migrant  bird-flocks  drifted  over  the  land,  and  winds  blew 
and  fires  gleamed  grateful,  and  hospitality  was  constantly 
exchanged  between  the  red-brick  house  and  the  vicarage, 
never  a  night  passing  but  that  Jane  and  the  Doctor  made 
their  way  across  to  Uncle  Horace's  to  spend  some  portion  of 
the  evening  there  —  in  these  days  the  Doctor  and  Bertha 
were  continually  thrown  in  each  other's  company,  and  he 
read  the  signs. 

As  this  knowledge  of  her  love  for  Berkeley  had  disturbed 
his  peace,  the  knowledge  of  his  love  for  her  might  make 
Jane  miserable;  put  an  end,  indeed,  to  all  comfortable  living 
under  this  roof;  precipitate  silence  and  constraint.  From 
thoughts  of  any  such  avowal  he  turned  away ;  only  the  baser, 
weaker,  wounded  part  of  him  had  ever  stooped  to  them  in 
hours  of  pain.  And  in  this  final  renunciation,  his  mind 
began  to  turn,  fitfully,  towards  Bertha  with  a  curious  specu- 
lation. 

She  was  no  substitute  for  Jane,  he  was  aware,  but  she  was 
Jane's  friend.  Something  of  a  reflected  Jane  irradiated  her 


262  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

and  made  her  smile  acceptable.  She  was  filled  with  Jane's 
sayings;  steeped  and  saturated  with  an  admiring  allegiant 
friendship  of  her  that  made  her,  in  essence  as  it  were,  akin. 
Tested  against  Jane,  merit  by  merit,  he  knew  in  his  heart 
she  failed,  as  lamplight  to  the  light  of  day.  And  yet,  in  the 
hours  of  darkness  the  lamp  can  cast,  he  knew,  a  quiet  and 
peaceful  glow;  afford  a  comfortable  dreaming-place  for 
fancy,  give  a  buffeted  spirit  peace.  She  was  young;  her 
face  screened  a  certain  beauty  that  flashed  forth  now  and 
again  in  keener  moments,  when  animation  focused  the  best 
in  her.  It  seemed,  then,  she  had  only  missed  an  abiding 
beauty  by  the  merest  sobering  of  the  component  qualities. 
Not  infrequently  in  those  earlier,  happier  days,  when  he  had 
caught  himself  comparing  the  two  girls,  it  had  struck  him 
of  what  impalpable  qualities  true  beauty  is  composed;  by 
what  minute  degrees  it  is  differentiated  from  the  lack  of  it. 
An  indefinable  matter  of  texture;  something  in  the  grain  of 
the  skin,  the  setting  of  the  eye,  the  curve  of  the  lips  make 
two  faces  —  otherwise  not  much  dissimilar  —  as  wide  asun- 
der, expressionally,  as  the  poles.  Jane's  beauty  never 
seemed  to  sleep. 

Bertha's  was  a  more  homely  spirit  —  peaceful,  capable  of 
sustaining  long  silences  with  a  comfortable  patience,  tract- 
able, loyal.  A  man  might  be  happy  with  her;  she  had  no 
wide  diapason  of  moods;  contentment  shone  in  her  cheek. 
Her  smile  was  a  sort  of  indulgent  surrender,  as  though  it 
yielded,  friendly,  to  another's  will.  It  never  flashed  forceful, 
like  Jane's,  swiftly  emphatic,  with  the  drench  of  tears  be- 
hind it,  or  brightly  quivering  in  irresistible  star-like  gladness. 
At  the  first  conscious  thought  of  her  as  heart's  substitute  for 
Jane,  he  shrunk ;  it  seemed  disloyalty  to  self,  treachery  to  all 
within  him  that  he  had  accounted  dear.  But  the  phase  of 
hot  repudiation  passed,  and  gave  place  to  one  of  more  tran- 
quillity, in  which  the  thought  was  philosophically  entertained. 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  263 

Was  this,  he  asked,  to  be  his  refuge?  Was  he  to  find,  by 
this  means,  his  peace  and  respite  from  those  other  assailant 
thoughts  ? 

The  contemplated  step  once  taken  would  make,  towards 
Jane,  his  loyalty  sure.  And  a  dream  —  not  that  he  reposed 
belief  in  these  nocturnal  earthquakes  of  the  imagination,  but 
this  was  vivid  and  impressive,  even  reviewed  by  daylight  — 
a  dream  helped  to  lean  him  to  the  favor  of  it.  He  saw  a 
visionary  Pridgeon,  of  whom,  in  the  flesh,  since  their  final 
divagation,  he  continued  to  see  strangely  little.  Mostly  their 
acquaintance  was  a  distant  thing  of  uplifted  arms.  Now  and 
again  at  a  turn  of  the  road  they  might  meet  face  to  face,  the 
Doctor  mounted,  the  farmer  on  foot.  Their  cry  of  greeting 
was  friendly,  they  would  interchange  shouts  about  the 
weather  and  the  crops,  but  neither  seemed  anxious  for  closer 
grips,  though  the  Doctor  was  aware  that  Pridgeon  always 
turned  after  a  few  paces  to  look  curiously  back  at  him.  The 
day  of  Jane's  wedding,  so  the  Doctor  dreamed,  was  close  at 
hand ;  a  visionary  despair  flowed  through  him  like  a  troubled 
tide.  On  every  hand  were  preparations  for  the  ceremony, 
strange  people  thronged  the  house,  encircling  Jane  with 
laughter  and  congratulations.  Everywhere  was  rejoicing. 
He  alone  passed  through  the  rejoicers  like  a  ghost,  mantled 
in  his  own  misery,  silent,  unobserved.  All  at  once  he  seemed 
to  have  quitted  this  home  of  festive  mockery,  and  found 
himself  upon  the  high  road,  hatless,  and  walking  swiftly. 
Through  his  preoccupation  a  voice  reached  him.  It  was 
Pridgeon's  voice,  full  of  nasal  reflections  and  friendly.  He 
saw  on  turning  his  head  that  the  farmer  was  leaning  over 
his  own  gate,  but  the  house  visible  beyond  was  the  Mariner's 
Leg  at  Kenham  Beach,  and  it  came  back  upon  the  Doctor 
that  he  had  heard  report  of  Pridgeon's  forsaking  his  farm 
for  the  more  congenial  role  of  publican.  Signs  of  this,  too, 
were  plainly  observable  in  the  farmer's  face,  and  the  pro- 


264  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

nounced  extension  of  his  girth.  He  was  coatless,  with  his 
white  shirt-sleeves  rolled  above  each  elbow;  his  two  arms 
were  laid  flat  upon  the  topmost  rail  of  the  gate,  his  chin 
rested  on  these ;  one  leg,  encased  in  a  brand-new  orange- 
colored  leather  legging,  was  raised  to  the  second  rail ;  a  great 
smile  enlarged  his  ample  face.  "  It's  true,  then  ?  "  cried  he. 
The  Doctor  knew  the  meaning  of  the  query,  though  he 
professed  ignorance.  "  What  is  true  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Why, 
about  yon  lass  o'  yours,"  Pridgeon  retorted,  withdrawing  to 
open  the  gate.  "  She's  chucked  you  after  all ;  I  knew  she 
would.  Come  in  wi'  you."  He  went  in,  submissive  to 
destiny.  Pridgeon  produced  glasses  for  two.  The  Doctor 
demurred.  Pridgeon  said,  "  Why  —  what !  She's  leaving 
you,  man!  What's  the  call  to  be  teetotal  now,  and  make 
yourself  miserable  any  longer  for  a  lass  that  doesn't  care 
that  for  you?  You've  done  your  duty  fair  enough.  Lord 
bless  us,  taste  a  little  happiness  before  you  die." 

And  suddenly  a  kind  of  desperate  rage  filled  him.  It  was 
true ;  his  reformation  had  been  for  her,  and  she  had  scorned 
it.  Fill  the  glass;  what  else  was  left  him?  Now  he  would 
drown  sorrow  in  earnest;  be  done  with  women  and  the 
thoughts  of  them  for  ever  from  henceforth.  All  the  ancient 
reckless  friendship  for  Pridgeon  revived;  he  felt  he  had 
wronged  him  all  these  years.  The  potion  went  down  his 
throat  for  pledge  of  amity,  like  fire.  In  his  dream  the  proc- 
ess of  intoxication  was  precipitated:  he  reeled  at  once;  a 
gorgeous  disregard  possessed  him.  Where  was  Jane?  Let 
him  seek  her  and  show  her  in  triumph  this  vindication  of  his 
manhood ;  let  her  tears  course  in  shame  and  expostulation  as 
when,  but  a  child,  she  had  pleaded  with  him  for  his  reform. 
Here  was  her  own  doing;  this  reckless  leaning  tower,  far 
out  of  the  perpendicular,  was  constructed  out  of  her  scorn. 

With  that  he  woke,  and  saw  at  once  the  nonsense  and  the 
truth  of  it.  While  Jane  was  here  at  hand,  lost  to  him  by 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  265 

anticipation,  yet  present  to  mitigate  the  suffering  appre- 
hended, he  might  be  certain  of  himself.  But  in  those  in- 
tolerable days  when  she  should  be  gone,  what  was  to  be- 
come of  him?  Was  this  dream-danger  indeed  to  be  appre- 
hended? Might  human  perversity  develop  a  passion  to  pull 
down  this  edifice  built  up  on  the  girl's  foundation;  seeking 
its  revenge  upon  these  aspirations  so  mislaid  ?  He  conceived 
it  might,  and  felt  the  danger  real.  It  turned  him  more  point- 
edly to  thoughts  of  Bertha.  He  had  the  belief  he  could  be 
sure  of  her;  her  lamp  was  trimmed;  its  flame  —  sometimes 
blown  upon  by  gusts  of  girlish  apprehension  —  invited  the 
bridegroom.  And  Jane  had  told  him,  in  relation  to  nothing 
under  discussion :  "  How  blind  men  are,"  and  "  I  don't  be- 
lieve you  ever  notice  anything,  Numphy."  He  had  noticed 
the  new  trimming  on  Bertha's  hat  all  the  same,  and  thought, 
philosophically,  it  suited  her.  "  What  should  there  be  to 
notice,  Jane  ?  "  "  Somebody,"  said  Jane,  with  a  slight  accent 
on  the  first  syllable,  "  is  very  fond  of  you,  Numphy  .  .  . 
if  you  only  had  eyes  to  see  it."  It  was  the  glove  direct. 
He  did  not  touch  it;  neither  picked  it  up  nor  flouted  it,  but 
let  the  token  lie. 

And  in  this  state  of  emotion  in  balance,  the  months  slipped 
by,  with  occasional  concerts  and  theater-goings  in  Hunmouth 
—  when  the  Doctor  took  charge  of  both  girls,  and  Bertha 
spent  the  night  with  her  friend,  so  that  Uncle  Horace  needed 
not  sit  up  for  her.  (Blessed  occasions  for  Bertha,  fruitful 
of  confidences,  and  generally  consecrated  with  a  few  happy 
tears  shed  upon  Jane's  pillow,  that  liquid  language  which 
woman  has  made  her  own.)  And  walks  and  drives  when  all 
these  three  seemed  part  of  a  mystic  circle,  each  so  very 
much  detached,  and  yet  so  completely  one  and  indivisible. 
Autumn  merged  into  winter;  winter  softened  protractedly  to 
spring;  spring  tremulous  with  the  bird  voices  that  shake, 
jeweled,  over  its  first  flesh-warm  days  like  gems  on  a  bosom, 


266  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

grew  slowly  steadfast  to  summer.  Bertha  took  flight  and 
came  back  again.  The  vicar  caught  cold  and  had  to  preach 
fore-shortened  sermons  with  a  piece  of  flannel  shirting  round 
his  neck.  Berkeley  paid  one  brief  visit  of  two  days.  Jane 
spent  much  of  her  summer  away,  at  the  homes  of  the  vicar's 
second  sisters  but  three,  and  eldest  nieces  but  four, —  people 
whose  identity  Numphy  did  his  best  to  assimilate,  with  in- 
different success.  Now  she  was  with  Bertha;  now  they 
were  divided  again:  Jane  had  the  grace  of  making  friends. 
For  Numphy  those  weeks  of  absence  were  a  horrible  period ; 
the  summer  days  were  torture  implements,  dipped  into  the 
sun  —  red-hot  for  branding  loneliness  upon  him.  Time 
flowed  like  the  Stygian  stream  once  more,  hideous  with 
memoried  ghosts,  wailing  and  haunting  the  tide;  beseeching 
relentless  old  Charon  to  waft  them  over  to  the  further  shore 
of  blest  forgetfulness.  And  there  was  not  even  Bertha  to 
mitigate  his  misery.  Had  she  been  with  Uncle  Horace  — 
who  knows!  Perhaps  the  Doctor  might  have  succumbed; 
certainly  he  thought  more  seriously  of  her  during  this  lonely 
time.  But  the  summer  passed,  and  Jane  returned  without 
her.  Bertha's  mother  was  sick,  and  the  sister  —  who 
took  the  adjutant  place  in  the  home,  had  gone  to  assist  one 
of  the  youngest  but  something  in  a  domestic  crisis,  daily 
expected  —  and  Bertha  was  having  to  remain  as  nurse,  at 
home.  And  there  was  another  harvest  festival,  painfully 
like  the  last;  a  sort  of  facsimile  in  fiasco.  Bertha  had  not 
yet  returned ;  Berkeley  came  with  a  fearful  cold  in  the  head, 
which  knocked  all  the  heroic  out  of  him;  turned  all  his  M's 
into  B's,  and  all  his  N's  into  D's,  so  that  he  preached  with 
a  handkerchief  in  one  hand.  And  there  was  a  dense  Oc- 
tober mist  over  the  world  beyond,  out  of  which  great  tear- 
drops fell,  as  though  the  weather  were  weeping  in  a  shawl ; 
and  all  through  the  sermon  could  be  heard  the  monotonous 
Hoo-ee,  Hoo-ee,  Hoo-eeee-e!  of  the  fog-signal  from  the 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  267 

Farsand  lightship ;  two  short  hoo-ees  in  the  bass,  succeeded 
by  a  third  protracted  hoo-ee  that  soars  screeching  into  the 
treble  like  a  beast  in  pain,  every  three  minutes,  with  miser- 
able reiteration. 

And  the  next  news  of  Bertha  came  one  breakfast-time,  in 
a  letter  of  innumerable  pages  that  Jane  strained  intently  to 
her  intelligence  through  sips  of  coffee. 

"  From  Bertha,  surely,"  said  the  Doctor,  with  careless 
inflection,  recognizing  the  script.  Jane  said,  "  Yes." 

"  She  writes  at  length." 

Jane  finished  the  last  page  and  refolded  the  bulky  letter. 

"  Poor  Bertha !  .  .  .  Yes.  She  is  rather  troubled 
just  now." 

"  Not  her  mother    ...     I  hope." 

"  No.  Not  her  mother."  Jane  sipped  her  coffee  piously, 
as  though  respecting  distress  by  a  most  commiserate  silence. 
"  She  wants  my  advice.  I  wish  I  could  give  it." 

"  Perhaps  you  can." 

"  I  don't  know."  Jane  shook  her  head  dubiously.  "  She 
.  .  .  of  course  it  is  to  be  a  secret,  yet,  Numphy.  But  I 
think  I  may  tell  you.  She  has  had  an  offer  of  marriage." 

He  could  have  laughed.  His  luck  again.  Every  avenue 
that  offered  an  outlet  from  grim  self  closed  to  him  as  he 
looked  at  it. 

"  Come  .  .  ."  said  he.  "  Is  that  so  very  serious,  Jane  ? 
Of  course  .  .  .  she  has  declined  ? " 

Jane  shot  a  quick  glance  into  his  cheerfulness,  as  though 
it  might  be  an  ambush. 

"  No  .  .  .  she  has  not  .  .  .  not  exactly  de- 
clined," she  said. 

"  You  mean  she  has  accepted." 

She  passed  a  reluctant  Yes  through  lips  that  had  the  look 
of  doubting  it.  "  At  least,"  she  began,  with  a  semblance  of 
reversing  agreement,  but  stopped,  seeing  the  impossibility  of 


268  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

it,  and  fell  back  upon  a  modified  affirmative.  ".  .  .  Yes 
.  .  .  I  suppose  she  has  accepted  .  .  ." 

"  And  now,  of  course,  that  the  step  is  taken,  she  wants 
advice !  "  The  Doctor  laughed.  "  To  be  sure.  How  like  a 
girl." 

"  She  has  known  him  a  long  time,"  Jane  said,  ignoring  the 
imputation. 

"  And  consequently,"  the  Doctor  supplied,  "  she  never 
really  knew  how  much  she  cared  for  him !  Oh,  Jane,  what  a 
funny  thing  this  falling  in  love  is." 

"  She  says  .  .  ." —  Jane  lowered  her  eyelids  and  her 
voice,  and  spoke  more  hurriedly.  "  (She  told  me  all  her 
secrets.)  She  says  she  is  afraid  she  can  never  care  for  him 
so  much  as  for  ...  as  for  somebody  else.  For  all  he 
is  tall;  nearly  six  feet." 

By  mutual  understanding  they  did  not  look  at  one  another. 
Jane  poured  out  more  coffee;  the  Doctor  broke  his  toast. 
"  She  asks  me,"  Jane  continued,  "  what  I  should  do  in  her 
place." 

The  Doctor  was  curious.  "  She  has  consented  to  marry 
him?" 

"  Oh,  yes." 

"  And  told  him  .  .  .  that  there  is  somebody  she  likes 
much  better  ?  " 

Jane  bridled  a  little  at  that. 

"  She  said,  of  course  ...  it  was  very,  very  sudden, 
and  she  had  not  been  prepared  for  it.  They  were  by  the 
pianoforte  in  the  drawing-room.  Of  course  you  don't  know 
it.  She  says  he  went  rather  white,  and  she  is  sure  his  voice 
trembled.  But  he  pressed  her  and  asked  if  she  thought  she 
could  ever  care  for  him  sufficiently  to  marry  him." 

"And  could  she?" 

"  She  said  she  would  try." 

"  I'm  sure  she'll  succeed." 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  269 

Jane  looked  at  him,  he  knew,  as  though  studying  an  acros- 
tic whose  simplicity  has  seemed  undoubted  until  we  strive 
for  the  solution.  Was  her  reading  of  this  familiar  Numphy 
at  fault?  That,  he  saw,  she  was  asking  herself  now.  Did 
he  lack  perception;  had  he  ever  divined,  did  he  even  at  this 
moment  divine  to  what  issue  with  Bertha  all  these  references 
had  tended?  The  question  jousted  with  her  silence,  and 
before  their  breakfast  was  over,  gave  it  a  fall.  She  took 
advantage  of  a  favoring  look  on  the  Doctor's  face,  and 
plunged  her  query. 

"  Do  you  know  who  the  Somebody  is,  that  Bertha  cared 
for,  Numphy?" 

"  I  will  try  hard  not  to  guess,  Jane." 

"Don't  you  .  .  .  don't  you  care  for  Bertha?  I 
thought  at  one  time  you  did,  rather." 

"  I  am  exceedingly  fond  of  her.     But     .     .     ." 

"But  what?" 

"  But  nothing,  Jane."  He  laughed  frustration  of  her 
query. 

"  Shall  you  never,  never  marry,  Numphy  ?  " 

The  question  was  too  direct,  like  a  fist  in  the  eyes.  He 
blinked  under  it,  but  the  answer  was  prompt  enough. 
"  Never,  Jane.  Now." 

And  that  was  his  leaden  plummet  of  conviction,  dropped 
down  to  his  heart's  bed.  He  felt  no  loss  of  Bertha;  some- 
thing told  him  that  he  would  never  have  broken  through  his 
outer  self  to  reach  her.  But  the  mental  loss  of  her  left 
something  of  a  void  in  his  thought;  made  loneliness  more 
perceptible.  He  said  to  himself :  "  Well,  you  are  all  by 
yourself  at  last.  Stand  up  to  it,  and  play  the  man." 


XXXIII 

MARCH,  and  the  Doctor's  Lass  is  to  be  married  at  last. 
Berkeley  Hislop  has  been  presented  to  the  living  of 
Burgis-Pocklesford ;  prudence  offers  no  further  bar  to  matri- 
mony. Jane,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  is  a  rector's  wife 
already.  The  Doctor  cultivates  a  braver  smile;  keeps  dip- 
ping his  reluctant  heart  into  the  sense  of  the  girl's  happiness, 
as  a  mahogany-faced  bathing  woman  grasps  remonstrant 
youth  at  the  sea-side  and  plunges  it  beneath  the  beneficent 
waves,  telling  it  how  warm  the  water  is  (though  youth  be 
shivering)  and  how  good  for  the  constitution.  He  says  this 
final  wrench  will  cure  him;  when  the  girl  goes  to  take  up 
her  new  duties  his  own  will  become  more  vital.  And  behind 
this  thought,  or  in  the  shadow  of  it,  crouches  another,  that 
assesses  the  probable  price  of  house  and  practice,  and  con- 
templates flight  precipitate  from  a  life  so  hollow  and  haunted. 
This  home  of  two  heart's  tragedies  can  be  no  longer  tolera- 
ble to  him.  Even  now  when  the  twilight  sinks  to  dusk  there 
falls  over  the  place  a  terrible  stillness,  a  pall  of  silence 
borrowed  from  the  future  —  as  though  the  dreadful  sever- 
ance were  over,  and  the  aging  years  lay  on  it. 

And  Anne  and  Hilda  are  stirred  to  lives  of  rhetoric  by  the 
imminence  of  Jane's  glory;  she  is  transfigured  before  them, 
is  no  longer  their  mistress  of  mortal  components,  but  a  more 
blessed  creature  of  celestial  essence,  with  beams  irradiating 
from  her  brow.  This  dawn  of  wifehood  renders  woman 
infinitely  beautiful  to  woman;  in  its  glow  she  is  shown 
wonderful,  flushed  with  the  hymeneal  rays  that  sparkle  in 
reciprocal  tears,  like  daybreak  on  dew.  The  hard  marital 

270 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  271 

daylight  may  slay  the  sentiment,  like  another  Daphne,  but 
it  is  lovely  while  it  lasts,  and  makes  even  the  face  of  a  plain 
woman  gleam  with  something  of  the  goddess  for  a  while. 

And  the  vicar  comes  out  of  his  winter  quarters  like  a 
hibernating  tortoise,  warmed  to  animation  by  this  sunlight 
of  good  intelligence.  He  walks  about  the  Sunfleet  roads 
smiling  to  himself,  and  framing  sentences  for  use  half-a- 
dozen  parishioners  ahead;  and  throws  up  his  chin  to  the  in- 
dulgence of  his  own  laughter  as  though  he  were  draining 
champagne  from  a  goblet,  and  passing  a  hand  over  his  chin 
to  stroke  it  to  seriousness.  Anon  he  shakes  his  stick  with 
playful  menacement  —  plainly  some  niece  or  nephew  is 
whimsically  threatened.  He  misses  nobody  on  foot  along 
the  road,  and  thrusts  up  a  penetrative  eye,  like  a  musket,  at 
all  who  meet  or  overtake  him  on  wheels.  The  splendor  of 
the  occasion  melts  him  to  sympathy  with  his  kind,  in 
which  even  his  long-congealed  memory  seems  to  thaw,  and 
flows  to  unprecedented  acts  of  remembrance  and  recognition. 

And  a  blustering  March  day  blew  Berkeley  Hislop  to 
Sunfleet  in  person  at  last,  charged  with  all  the  latest  intelli- 
gence; to  confer  with  Jane  and  put  the  final  term  on  their 
engagement.  Here  are  photographs  to  whet  her  appetite 
and  please  her;  photographs  of  St.  Michael's  taken  on  a 
cloudless  noonday;  a  cheerless-looking  modern  church,  with 
an  undecorated  broad  and  steep-pitched  roof,  as  angular  as 
a  problem  in  Euclid,  with  every  tile  showing,  and  three 
errand-boys  sitting  in  a  row  on  baskets  before  the  porch  to 
lend  the  necessary  local  color.  And  here  is  the  vicarage, 
taken  four  years  ago ;  a  somewhat  Tudor  house  of  red-brick, 
promising  space  within,  but  otherwise  unbeautiful ;  standing 
in  its  own  grounds  of  half-an-acre,  with  a  crescent  carriage- 
drive,  in  at  one  gate  and  out  at  the  other  as  though  drawn 
by  compasses.  There  are  photographs,  too,  of  Burgis- 
Pocklesford  —  that  is  now  virtually  a  suburb  of  busy  Grow- 


272  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

ingham  —  and  they  sit  and  converse  over  them ;  and  pass 
them  from  hand  to  hand,  with  talks  of  parishes  and  ruri- 
diaconates,  and  inductions,  and  bishop's  mandates  and  pa- 
trons and  advowsons ;  and  the  vicar  wants  to  know  all  about 
the  garden,  and  Jane  all  about  the  house;  and  the  Doctor, 
through  his  show  of  interest,  wants  to  know  things  of  deeper 
moment  than  these. 

He  feels  himself  the  veritable  Judas  in  this  pleasant 
discipleship ;  scrip-carrier  for  all  their  happiness;  seared 
with  the  knowledge  of  his  own  guilt;  a  traitor  to  both 
parties.  Berkeley  Hislop's  eye  is  an  unbearable  orb,  like  a 
midday  sun;  his  conscience  writhes  under  the  light  of  it. 
Jane's  pride  and  happiness  are  as  goads  to  treachery.  Can 
he  betray  such  qualities  as  these?  While  he  laughs  and 
talks  with  them  he  is  busy  going  round  all  his  horrible 
defenses;  visiting  redoubts;  inquiring  at  what  point  this 
fortification  of  falsehood  is  vulnerable.  Vulnerable  at  every 
point,  the  answer  comes,  so  long  as  Julian  Alston  lives; 
vulnerable  at  many,  even  when  the  graveyard  worms  are 
threading  him.  And  Jane's  happiness  is  not  alone  a  thing 
of  Now;  happiness  is  not  to  be  won  like  a  jewel  and  worn 
for  all  time :  it  is  a  perishable  flower ;  plucked,  it  may  wither 
in  the  hand.  And  this  knowledge  of  the  blind-eyed  man 
may  rise  like  an  exhalation  some  day  for  the  poisoning  of 
Jane's  wedded  life;  make  her  the  defenseless  prey  of  a 
husband's  reproaches.  Ought  he,  in  justice  to  the  girl,  to 
break  through  his  sentiment  that  vainly  tries  to  shield  her 
from  all  sorrow  and  make  her  partner  to  this  pestilent  truth  ? 
Some  such  thought  indeed  oppresses  him.  In  this  present 
atmosphere  of  close  interests  he  feels  himself  suffocate.  He 
has  clung  to  procrastination  all  this  while,  dreading  a  revela- 
tion untimely  —  this  extreme  and  desperate  use  of  surgery  in 
morals  —  as  he  would  avoid  the  knife  in  cases  where  a  pallia- 
tive treatment  may  succeed.  But  here  procrastination  ab- 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  273 

ruptly  ends;  he  is  arrived  at  the  eleventh  hour  where 
measures  must  be  prompt  and  butcher-cruel.  May  is  being 
mentioned  as  their  month  of  marriage;  Jane  is  to  go  down 
and  spend  some  time  with  Berkeley's  mother  for  the  discus- 
sion of  those  practical  matters  connected  with  their  home-to- 
be.  Shall  he  speak?  Shall  he  open  these  lips  of  his  to  her 
and  let  issue  the  truth?  In  mind  he  sees  her  eyes  grow  big 
to  the  horror  of  it. 

Yes.  He  fears  the  duty,  but  he  thinks  he  does  not  shirk 
it.  He  will  tell  her.  She  can  break  the  truth  to  Berkeley 
without  revealing  it;  show  him  some  of  the  trouble  in  her 
heart;  hint  the  dire  cause  of  it.  Surely  who  better  than 
Jane  can  spin  love's  magic  over  this  sordid  truth?  And 
what  she  has  initiated  he  can  complete;  break  truth  into 
fine  particles  and  scatter  its  solid  weight  as  impalpably  as  he 
can,  so  long  as  none  of  it  be  missing. 

The  thought  assumes  the  aspect  of  a  resolution  at  the  din- 
ner-table on  the  second  day  of  Berkeley's  visit.  The  vicar, 
deterred  by  March  gales,  and  possibly,  also,  by  some  whim- 
sical consideration  for  hearts  infatuate,  is  not  one  of  the 
party.  They  sit,  three  at  table,  and  the  talk  is  formal 
enough.  The  floods  are  out  at  Kenham  Beach;  to-morrow, 
if  it  be  fine  enough,  Jane  is  to  drive  Berkeley  for  a  sight  of 
them;  whole  fields  are  submerged;  the  Doctor  has  been  told 
it  is  a  wonderful  sight.  And  with  to-night's  high  tide,  and 
the  wind  blowing  occasional  gales  from  the  north-west, 
there  is  prospect  of  further  flood.  The  air  is  keen;  old 
Stebbing  predicts  snow.  There  seems  likelihood  of  a  back- 
ward spring.  As  they  sit  they  hear  the  riot  of  the  breeze 
outside.  Now  and  then  a  clap  of  wind  strikes  the  house 
with  a  flat  hand  and  makes  the  chimneys  tremble ;  whereat  a 
fugitive  spirit  seems  to  run  down  the  flue  and  cower  to  ex- 
tinction in  the  red  coals.  Rising  from  the  table,  the  wind  — 
that  has  been  buffeting  the  house  from  the  north-west  most 

18 


274  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

of  the  day  —  rattles  the  rose  branches  against  the  eastern 
side  of  the  big  bay  window.  The  Doctor  comments  upon  it. 
If  the  wind  means  changing  suddenly  to  the  east,  it  will  blow 
up  a  big  tide  on  the  existing  north-west  roll.  The  gust 
against  the  window  is  repeated  with  a  sharp  artillery  of  hail 
that  startles  Jane  into  a  sudden  exclamation.  She  hopes 
there  will  be  no  call  for  Numphy  on  a  night  like  this. 

The  words  are  barely  uttered  before  they  hear  —  as  though 
the  saying  had  some  pre-conscious  sympathy  with  it  —  the 
sudden  ringing  of  the  front-door  bell.  The  Doctor  smiles, 
and  holds  himself  submissive  to  fate  by  the  fireplace.  In  his 
heart  of  hearts  he  is  hoping  for  a  call,  devoutly  dreads  this 
interview  with  Jane,  will  welcome  any  means  for  its  defer- 
ment that  bears  the  brand  of  destiny.  And  by  this  trade- 
mark he  seems  for  the  moment  saved.  Hester  shows  at  the 
door;  his  visitor  is  Jack  Thatcher  from  Kenham  Beach,  and 
the  Doctor's  services  are  wanted.  Jane  whispers,  "  What  a 
shame,  Numphy !  "  as  he  passes  her.  Berkeley  assumes  an 
expression  of  sympathy,  piously  restrained,  to  imply  no 
aspersion  on  providence.  They  hear  the  Doctor  greet  his 
caller  in  the  hall :  a  slouching  youth  with  a  head  that  seems 
to  grow  downward  on  his  chest,  like  a  Jargonelle  pear  against 
a  wall,  with  the  thickest  part  undermost.  He  holds  a  cloth 
cap  pressed  to  his  stomach  like  a  hand  camera,  and  with  his 
head  over  it  seems  on  the  point  of  taking  the  Doctor's  por- 
trait as  the  latter  emerges  from  the  room.  Interrogation 
reveals  that  he  has  the  faintest  knowledge  of  his  mission 
beyond  the  fact  that  he  was  asked  to  fetch  the  Doctor,  and 
that  the  sufferer  is  his  sister.  On  the  subject  of  symptoms 
he  shows  all  the  characteristics  of  the  Doctor's  callers  of 
the  male  sex  in  regard  to  difficulties  not  their  own.  And 
even  those  who  come  in  charge  of  their  own  malady  search 
after  this  hazily  in  the  Doctor's  presence  as  though  it  were 
a  mislaid  coin,  and  tell  him  pathetically :  "  Noo,  I  know  very 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  275 

well  I'd  gotten  a  strange  pain  about  me  somewheres,  or  I 
shouldn't  'a  come.  I  had  her  when  I  cam'  thruff  yon  gate. 
But  she's  slipped  me  noo  fairlins."  He  exhibits  to  the  full, 
too,  that  baffling  degree  of  acquiescence  in  every  symptom 
suggested  that  is  the  doctor's  bane.  Is  his  sister  feverish? 
He  thinks  she  is.  Sick  ?  Aye,  very  like.  Has  she  any  pain  ? 
Why,  he  never  heard  them  say.  Happen  she  has  a  bit. 
The  case  seems,  by  his  showing,  so  little  imperative  that  the 
Doctor  is  led  to  ask  "  Will  it  be  all  right  if  I  call  to-mor- 
row ?  "  and  the  visitor  says  "  Aye.  I  should  think  it'll  do 
all  right  then."  But  something  in  his  steadfastness  of 
posture,  and  circumferential  fingering  of  cap,  hint  at  some- 
thing more  urgent  to  the  Doctor's  practiced  eye,  and  he  goes 
over  all  the  ground  again.  This  time  he  establishes  fever 
and  troubled  respiration.  The  visitor's  sister  makes  noises 
when  she  tries  to  swallow,  and  she  is  supposed  to  have 
caught  cold.  The  Doctor  asks :  "  Who  told  you  to  come  ?  " 
The  youth  admits :  "  My  mother." 

"Have  you  ridden?" 

"  Walked." 

"  The  water's  out  at  Kenham.     How  did  you  get  across  ?  " 

"  I  cam'  roond  by  Hun  Bank  along  o'  William  Opler. 
He  had  a  stable  light.  There's  aboon  three  feet  by  road, 
i'  some  places." 

"  Did  your  mother  know  that  when  she  sent  you?" 

"  Aye." 

"  Then  she  must  be  anxious  on  your  sister's  account.  Is 
she?" 

"  A  bit,  'appen.  She  telt  me  to  look  sharp  and  stop 
nowheres." 

"  Did  your  mother  mention  croup  ?  " 

The  boy  shakes  his  head. 

"  That'll  do."  The  Doctor  surrenders  interrogation.  "  Go 
through  to  the  kitchens  —  you  know  your  way  —  and  ask 


276  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

them  for  the  stable  lantern.     We  won't  trouble  the  groom. 
I'll  come  along  with  you." 

He  goes  into  the  room  again  to  tell  Jane,  and  takes  his 
leave  of  Berkeley.  Jane  heaps  her  commiseration  upon  him, 
and  takes  hold  of  his  shoulders,  in  the  hall,  to  kiss  him  god- 
speed. There  is  a  kiss  for  each  cheek,  drawing  the  blood  up 
to  counteract  this  cold  March  wind,  and  he  cannot  quite 
subdue  the  elation  that  receives  these  tokens  in  Berkeley's 
presence  as  the  reward  for  heroism.  All  the  same  he  tries, 
for  there  is  (God  wot) but  little  heroism  in  such  going  forth. 
He  is  just  a  country  doctor  —  no  more  —  slipping  his  pocket 
case  into  the  bosom  of  his  big  coat,  and  turning  up  the  collar 
to  fare  forth  and  seek  his  living.  Such  heroism  is  the  Sun- 
fleet  policeman's  nightly  portion ;  and  the  coastguards,  tread- 
ing their  pathway  through  the  treacherous  twitch-grass  by 
the  cliff-edge,  night  by  night,  reduplicate  the  heroic  in  these 
nocturnal  editions  till  it  becomes  as  common  as  our  daily 
print. 


XXXIV 

THE  night  was  not  so  formidable  but  that  the  Doctor, 
tucked  up  to  the  ears  in  the  collar  of  his  great  frieze 
coat,  felt  a  compensation  for  being  out  in  it.  On  many  a 
worse  evening  of  mid-winter  had  he  turned  his  face  to  the 
blinding  east,  with  sleet  upon  his  lashes,  and  flakes  of  it  ever 
melting  on  his  lips.  The  wind  to-night  had  veered  com- 
pletely, blew  no  more  from  the  north  and  west,  but  from  the 
east,  coming  in  great  gusts,  like  chords  smitten  from  a  harp ; 
bringing  such  a  weight  against  them  as  to  hide  all  sound  of 
their  motion,  and  make  the  gig  seem  for  the  moment  station- 
ary. Then,  this  pressure  as  suddenly  released,  the  candles 
in  the  lamps  that  had  been  blown  to  the  very  verge  of  ex- 
tinction leaped  into  yellow  life  again ;  the  Doctor  and  his 
companion  lifted  their  heads,  aimed  to  meet  this  solid 
onslaught,  and  the  trap  seemed  to  spring  into  motion  once 
more.  They  heard  the  blast  careering  to  the  west  behind 
them;  thundering  in  the  distance  like  wild  horses  in  stam- 
pede. Then  all  to  the  front  of  them  would  be  left  tranquil, 
as  though  this  blast  had  consumed  turbulence  in  its  passage ; 
in  the  lull  ensuing  they  could  listen,  gleaning  sounds  from 
far  before.  The  tingling  of  the  telegraph  wire  overhead 
alone  told  of  a  wind  somewhere  in  motion,  and  warned  them 
of  its  fresh  assault.  With  a  sudden  whistle  of  hedgegrass 
and  crack  of  dried  branches,  it  would  be  on  them  again ;  the 
protesting  wires  would  scream  in  high  treble;  dead  leaves 
and  blown  twigs  would  strike  their  breasts  and  lowered 
heads ;  and  there  would  be  a  drum-rattling  among  the 
leathern  shreds  of  the  old  buggy's  hood  —  for,  on  a  night 

277 


278  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

like  this,  and  with  water  to  traverse  and  winds  to  oppose, 
the  Doctor  accounted  economy  before  grandeur,  and  saved 
his  raleigh. 

There  was  no  moon,  and  flying  clouds,  following  fast  upon 
each  other  in  the  darkness,  lent  a  shifting  quality  to  the  stars 
as  though  all  the  heavenly  bodies  were  blown  into  motion; 
careering  wildly  with  these  driven  canopies  and  vestiges  of 
vapor.  But  unless  there  be  mist,  this  flat,  low-lying  sweep 
of  country  is  never  altogether  lightless.  Let  the  air  only  be 
crisp  and  clear,  and  without  any  aid  from  the  heavenly  bod- 
ies, a  multitude  of  mortal  fires  conspire  to  make  the  darkness 
cheerful.  To-night  as  they  drove,  with  their  faces  to  the 
south-east,  and  the  wind  sharpening  itself  on  their  teeth,  and 
playing  music  in  their  mouths,  three  great  fans  of  palpitating 
light  rose  up  from  as  many  points  on  the  horizon  behind 
their  shoulders.  Away  to  the  left,  Dimmlesea  stained  the 
lower  edge  of  the  sky  a  luminous  yellow,  shooting  out  at 
intervals  the  beam  from  its  fixed  light  in  the  familiar  signal 
of  two  brief  flashes  succeeded  by  one  protracted  stare. 
Distant  Hunmouth,  twenty  miles  or  more  behind  them, 
raised  her  quivering  dome  of  light  into  the  sky,  the  aerial 
vault  surmounting  her  glittering  docks  and  flaring  thorough- 
fares; and  on  the  right,  brought  strangely  near  to  hand  in 
those  periods  of  lucidity  when  the  breeze  sped  by  and  inter- 
posed no  curtain  of  fine  snow,  Grimethorpe  and  her  suburb 
sent  up  a  double  aura  from  their  string  of  lights  beyond  the 
river.  Nor  these  alone  made  company  for  them :  they  were 
ringed  with  broad  gleams  and  starry  twinkles ;  drove  forward 
in  a  circus  of  light.  Spraith,  in  this  frost-cleansed  atmos- 
phere, plunged  forth  her  beam  to  the  jeweled  hilt  through  the 
miles  of  darkness :  a  sword  of  fire,  naked  and  piercing.  At 
every  twentieth  second  the  thrust  was  aimed,  a  stab  of  sud- 
den light,  and  swift  withdrawal,  intensified  so  startlingly  by 
the  keen  air,  and  their  own  dilated  pupils  —  straining  for 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  279 

glimpses  in  front  of  them  through  the  dim  web  of  yellow 
lamplight  —  that  the  thrust  was  as  though  delivered  out  of 
the  very  hedge.  A  pilot  steamer,  twinkling  red  and  white  at 
her  masthead,  threaded  the  river-course;  the  Cowsand  light- 
ship winked  her  alternating  flashes  from  the  Hun;  right  in 
front  of  them,  away  to  the  south-east  of  Beachington,  they 
saw  the  periodic  gleam  from  the  outer  lightship  marking  the 
Farsand  banks  far  out  beyond  the  Point,  a  faint  semi-circu- 
lar glow  that  crept  up  into  the  sky  as  though  some  moon 
were  rising,  and  briefly  fell.  Other  lights,  mere  pin-pricks 
of  fire  in  the  darkness,  decorated  the  horizon  all  around 
them ;  here,  from  lanterns  on  some  rocking  sloops  at  their 
moorings  in  the  river,  from  tug  or  plowing  steamer ;  there, 
from  farmsteads  near  and  far.  A  stable  lamp,  swinging 
across  the  foldyard  of  Cobham's  at  Fotham  highlands, 
flashed  rays  like  a  diamond;  great  elongated  beams  as 
though  a  fiery  asterisk  were  in  motion,  perambulating  the 
heights ;  a  celestial  portent  such  as  was  wont  to  mark  the 
birth  or  the  demise  of  the  anciently  august.  Then,  as  they 
looked,  some  part  of  what  they  looked  at  would  wane  on  a 
sudden  dip  and  disappear.  Next  moment  the  cause  of  it 
would  strike  them  broadside,  volleys  of  fine  white  snow  — 
in  some  cases  actual  hail,  or  "  agglestones,"  as  our  district 
calls  them.  Never  prolonged,  for  the  gale  was  far  too 
boisterous,  such  volleys  would  succeed  each  other  quickly, 
three  or  four  in  briefest  repetition,  sheeting  their  breasts 
and  coat-sleeves  and  the  inclined  crowns  of  their  caps  with 
momentary  white,  and  therewith  the  obliterated  lights  would 
shine  again. 

Thus  they  drove,  wrapped  up  in  these  swift  fugitive  snows, 
these  distant  encircling  lights  and  their  own  reflections. 
Few  words  were  interchanged.  Now  and  again  the  Doctor 
cried,  "  Come,  Kitty !  "  and  sent  a  ripple  of  encouragement 
along  the  reins  to  where  the  mare's  ears  pricked  sensitively 


28o  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

in  the  all  but  darkness  on  the  verge  of  the  lamplight;  but 
of  talk  there  was  none.  The  wind,  and  inclination  on  the 
Doctor's  part,  forbade.  Through  all  these  lights  and  ele- 
mental furies  his  mind  made  small  advancement ;  the  gig  bore 
his  body  onward,  in  heart  he  stayed  at  home.  Many  of  his 
cries  to  the  mare  were,  in  fact,  but  swift  dismissals  of  some 
difficulty  in  his  thinking,  some  breach  of  an  interrogation 
that  interposed  its  threatening  bulk.  Again  and  again,  jolt- 
ing shoulders  with  his  lump-headed  companion,  he  framed 
the  words  for  Jane's  enlightenment;  begged  her  forgiveness 
first  of  all  for  what  he  had  to  tell  her;  drew  her  hand  into 
his ;  asked  with  his  eyes  upon  her,  if  she  thought  she  were 
brave  enough  to  be  told  something  painful  to  her  pride  — 
thus  stimulating  the  curiosity  that  in  woman  serves  almost  at 
times  the  purpose  of  a  natural  anaesthetic,  deadening  the 
force  of  the  truth  told  through  the  keenness  of  desire  to  hear 
it.  She  gave  the  assurance;  pleaded,  girl-like,  for  the  quick 
telling.  He  involved  her  in  a  debt  of  promises,  pledging 
conduct,  all  aimed  at  her  vanity  and  courage.  And  then, 
when  these  were  given,  drew  his  breath  to  breathe  the  first 
and  lightest  of  the  worst,  in  form  of  query.  Suppose  .  .  . 
Suppose  he  were  to  tell  her  that  this  dead  and  buried  father 
had  no  claim  upon  her  love  or  her  respect?  Suppose  he 
had  done  things  to  forfeit  both?  So,  in  mind,  he  paved  the 
way  to  the  deed ;  rehearsed  his  odious  duty  too  long  delayed. 
The  violent  assaults  of  the  wind  scarcely  found  a  way  into 
his  consciousness.  Thought  was  almost  a  chamber  to  him, 
secure  against  the  elements  for  all  he  saw  and  felt  and  heard 
of  them. 

They  drove  through  zig-zag  Beachington  at  last,  lamp-lit 
and  casement-sealed.  The  coast-guard  hailed  them  from  the 
doorstep  of  the  White  Cow,  and  a  riot  of  laughter  reached 
them  from  the  bagatelle-room  window  beyond,  where  heads 
were  shadowed  in  activity  against  the  white  blinds.  There 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  281 

was  even  a  remnant  of  the  customary  town-end  club  pinned 
flat  against  the  lee  side  of  the  post-office  corner,  like  beetles 
on  a  setting-block,  with  its  hands  in  its  pockets,  and  its  pipes 
gleaming  in  rotation.  An  incredulous  greeting  came  out  of 
the  murmuring  flatness  of  it :  "  Aye,  it's  Doctor  an'  all. 
What  ?  He  never  means  to  gan  roond  by  Kenham  ti-neet !  " 
and  the  Doctor  cried  back  a  cheery  "  Good-night,  my  lads," 
as  though  it  were  midsummer,  and  the  occasion  joyful.  That 
men  should  choose  a  night  like  this  for  setting  their  shoulders 
against  cold  plaster  did  not  surprise  him;  he  had  seen  the 
same  thing  on  wilder  nights,  and  colder.  Just  as  there  are 
swimmers  who  make  it  their  morning  ritual  to  cleave  the 
waters  of  sea  or  Serpentine,  so  there  are  Beachington  men 
who  would  not  sleep  sound  in  bed  without  the  impress  of  the 
post-office  brickwork  upon  their  backs.  And  when  the  Day 
of  Judgment  dawns,  and  Gabriel  sounds  his  final  fanfare,  six 
men  at  least  (and  three  in  jerseys)  will  knock  the  ashes  from 
their  pipes  against  this  corner,  saying  — 

"  Lawks-a-Massye !  Yon's  nivver  Judgment-Day !  Ay,  it 
is  an'  all !  Time  flies,  you  may  depend." 

And  now  the  Doctor's  buggy  cast  off  the  shelter  of  these 
window-kindled  houses,  and  stripping  these  comfortable 
vestiges  of  civilization,  took  the  naked  road  once  more,  due 
south  this  time,  for  Kenham  Beach.  All  in  the  dim  circum- 
ference of  their  flickering  lamp-light,  with  the  terrestial 
darkness  lying  thick  beyond,  and  the  horizon  lights  pricking 
out  the  great  amphitheater  in  which  they  journeyed,  they 
heard  when  the  sudden  gale  had  thundered  by,  the  thresh  of 
great  breakers  punishing  the  shingle  on  the  sea-shore,  that 
here  runs  parallel  with  the  road,  and  but  a  field  or  so  remote. 
Sometimes,  like  artillery,  this  sound  of  breakers  sped  down 
the  coast  in  a  succession  of  sharp  reports :  curled  waters  in 
collision.  Overhead  the  telegraph  wires,  bearing  the  full 
brunt  of  the  gale,  sang  like  a  choir  of  archangels;  at  times, 


282  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

too,  every  single  blade  of  grass  seemed  instinct  with  a  voice, 
minute  but  penetrant.  So  they  traveled,  broadside  now 
to  the  breeze  that  rocked  the  gig  upon  its  ancient  springs 
and  more  than  once  blew  up  the  hood  startlingly  above  their 
heads  with  the  clap  of  a  gun,  until  at  last  they  topped  the 
embankment  that  runs  across  the  road  from  Hun  to  beach, 
and  the  Doctor  drew  a  tighter  hand  upon  the  reins. 

Already  their  lamps  had  elucidated,  on  either  side,  stray 
streaks  and  flatness  of  water  in  places  where  water  should 
not  be;  rinding  a  liquid  reflection  in  fields  that  had  lain 
fallow  some  days  before,  at  which  the  Doctor's  companion 
aimed  a  finger  through  the  darkness.  "  Yon's  Masham's 
sixteen-acre,  look  ye.  She'll  be  swum  a  foot  deep  by  noo, 
I'll  awager." 

The  dykes,  too,  running  on  their  right  and  left  were 
swollen  almost  to  the  summit  of  their  once  dry  rustling  flags, 
but  here,  poised  on  the  vault  of  embankment  for  descent 
of  the  Kenham  side,  they  saw  the  full  extent  of  the  flood. 
Where  they  had  left  dry  road  behind  them  in  this  brief 
gradient,  they  dipped  down  now  to  meet  a  waste  of  plashing 
waters  in  which  all  trace  of  road  was  lost.  Only  the  tele- 
graph posts  pricked  a  sparse  way  through  the  formidable 
flood  that  danced  in  vehement  commotion  like  a  sea.  In- 
deed, to  all  intents  and  purposes,  this  was  the  sea.  Its 
waters  were  heaped  up  over  the  land  by  the  breakers  of  the 
German  Ocean  not  two  hundred  yards  away  that  carried 
Kenham's  low  beach  by  assault,  wave  after  wave,  and  rushed 
like  lines  of  liquid  soldiery  to  force  their  passage  to  the 
Hun. 

Before  this  turbulence  of  nocturnal  waters  the  Doctor  drew 
momentary  rein.  More  than  once  he  had  forded  the  spot  by 
daylight,  keeping  the  mare's  nose  to  a  rigid  center  of  the 
submerged  roadway;  judging  his  course  by  the  guide-stakes, 
and  telegraph  posts,  and  the  suggestive  deepening  of  the 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  283 

water's  hue  that  showed  the  swollen  ten-foot  dykes  on  either 
hand;  aiming  by  these  aids  to  where  the  roadway  lifted 
itself  free  of  the  flood  by  Martin's  farm  and  ran  in  track  of 
dust  to  Kenham.  But  now  he  had  no  such  aids  to  guide 
him.  The  telegraph  posts  stepped  into  the  swirl  of  waters 
and  were  lost  to  sight  at  a  stride.  Martin's  farm  was  indis- 
tinguishable;  the  waves  took  the  feeble  lamplight  and  tore 
it  up  to  distracting  shreds  of  reflection  —  serpentine  gleams 
lighting  nothing,  but  baffling  motion  and  lending  assistance 
to  bewilderment.  For  all  that  lay  in  front  of  him  dis- 
tinguishable from  this  living  volume  of  water,  the  Doctor 
might  have  been  setting  his  mare's  nose  to  the  North  Sea. 

The  danger  was  more  pictorial  than  real,  he  knew.  In  no 
place  along  the  roadway  —  could  he  but  keep  it  —  would 
there  lie  a  greater  depth  of  water  than  four  feet;  but  this 
water  was  in  motion,  driven  by  sea  and  whipped  by  wind,  a 
distraction  to  the  mind  and  eye.  But  to  go  back  was  no 
part  of  the  Doctor's  business;  for  five  minutes  he  would  be 
fording  a  nightmare,  conscious  that  its  terrors  were  dis- 
torted. And  a  fleeting  thought  of  Berkeley  Hislop  touched 
his  pride  to  a  sort  of  courage  and  contempt.  He  cried, 
"  Come  along,  Kitty  lass,"  and  coaxed  her  forthwith  into  the 
flood. 

The  mare,  with  pricked  ears  and  arched  neck  —  her  nos- 
trils trumpeted  towards  the  thunderous  sea,  source  of  all  this 
turbulence  —  took  the  trap's  weight  upon  her  breeching  and 
advanced  by  minced  steps  into  the  waters,  protest  and  sus- 
picion writ  upon  her  frame  from  croup  to  muzzle.  Soon 
she  was  up  to  the  knees  and  deeper;  holding  her  nostrils 
clear  of  the  waves  that  noisily  slapped  her  belly,  and  sprayed 
at  times  the  occupants  in  the  gig;  advancing  with  a  short 
sawing  movement  as  though  she  girded  under  all  these 
tyrannies  of  trappings  and  elements.  Each  step  had  to  be 
coaxed  by  a  gentle  usage  of  the  reins  and  an  appeal  to  her 


284  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

name,  with  the  reassuring  "  Kt !  Kt !  lass.  Come,  Kitty ! 
Come,  my  lass!  Steady  there,  mare.  What's  frightening 
you?  You're  safe  enough."  And  with  the  step  taken,  the 
lamplight  showed  her  blinkered  eyes  investigating  the  dark- 
ness to  right  and  left  of  her;  mouthing  her  bit,  and  tossing 
her  expanded  nostrils  into  the  air.  Step  by  step,  after  this 
fashion,  they  forded  the  dizzy  sweep  of  water;  writhing 
snakes  of  light  were  all  about  them;  they  moved  slowly  in 
contorted  serpents  of  fire  that  invested  them  with  a  satanic 
ring,  and  blackness  reigned  beyond.  Every  now  and  then 
they  were  compelled  to  pause  until  some  gust  of  wind  had 
spent  its  fury,  and  the  gig-lamps  recovered  from  the  assault, 
spreading  irradiation  far  enough  to  touch  dimly  some  sub- 
merged signs  and  give  the  Doctor  his  pledge  to  proceed. 
But  soon  this  instability  of  tenure  told  its  tale;  the  vexing 
convolutions  of  light  swept  out  all  direction;  the  multitude 
of  waters  dinning  in  the  ear  and  baffling  the  eye  undermined 
assurance.  The  Doctor  looked  back;  already  darkness  en- 
veloped their  point  of  departure;  on  every  side  the  waves, 
leaping  to  facets  of  fire,  hemmed  them  round.  To  turn 
forward  again,  after  this  retrospect,  was  to  doubt  direction 
in  front  of  them  still  further.  The  boy  cried,  "  Yon's  wires, 
see  ye!  We're  strangelins  gain  hand  dyke  on  this  side." 
The  warning  found  an  echo  in  the  Doctor's  fears;  he  pulled 
the  mare's  head  to  the  left,  against  her  instinct  and  the  pres- 
sure of  the  wind.  A  few  paces  forward  and  an  ominous 
softness  under  their  left  wheel  caused  him  to  cry  a  sudden 
"  Whoa !  "  Surely  that  was  grass  beneath  them.  A  certain 
element  of  consternation  permeated  both  bosoms.  The  boy 
said,  "  We  ought  tiv  'a  gone  round  by  bank."  If  the  Doctor 
had  been  unsure  of  his  mare,  their  position  might  have  been 
precarious.  To  turn  back  was  impossible  —  even  had  he 
decided  that  the  only  solution  was  to  essay  the  shorter  pas- 
sage rearward,  to  the  road  they  had  left.  He  called  upon 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  285 

the  mare  again  for  a  trial  step  — "  Come,  lass !  Come, 
Kitty !  " —  leaving  the  direction  of  it  to  her  instinct.  She 
pawed  the  water  and  took  one,  and  on  that  he  ventured  a 
second;  but  all  this  uncertainty  of  driving  had  infected  her 
own  confidence ;  timidity  seized  her ;  she  fretted  in  the  shafts 
with  startled  head  thrown  to  each  side  of  her;  trembled; 
began  to  back.  The  Doctor  rose  from  his  seat.  "Whoa, 
Kitty!  Whoa,  mare."  She  stood,  champing  a  terrorized 
bit,  as  though  the  blackness  held  specters  for  her,  plainly  on 
the  verge  of  panic.  There  was  only  one  step  to  be  taken, 
and  the  Doctor  took  it  without  a  thought. 

"  Hold  the  reins,  my  lad,"  he  said,  and  threw  off  his  coat, 
and  let  himself  down  into  the  water. 

The  wetness  of  its  embrace  ran  up  to  meet  him  as  he 
dropped  from  the  gig,  and  hugged  him  icily,  breast  high. 
Their  left  wheel  rested  on  the  very  verge  of  the  dyke;  but 
for  a  timely  grasp  of  its  spokes  he  would  have  been  over- 
head, indeed,  and  the  next  wave  smote  him  across  the  neck. 
As  he  left  his  momentary  danger,  a  strange  thought  flashed 
through  him  —  almost  exultant. 

"  Perhaps  Jane  will  miss  me  when  I  am  dead." 

But  even  as  his  mind  emitted  it,  he  had  pulled  his  soaking 
figure  out  of  immediate  peril,  and  crept,  hand  over  hand, 
along  the  shaft  to  the  mare's  head,  soothing  her  by  voice  as 
he  did  so.  Now,  with  this  knowledge  of  their  whereabouts, 
he  could  lead  her  tediously,  but  in  safety,  interposing  his 
own  body  between  the  mare  and  danger.  So  long  as  he 
skirted  the  dyke's  grass  border,  thought  he,  reassuring  him- 
self cautiously  of  its  close  proximity  from  time  to  time,  and 
making  certain  of  no  driftage  to  the  unprotected  danger  on 
their  right,  they  might  proceed  without  real  peril.  He 
stroked  the  mare's  rounded  nostrils  with  cajoling  hand,  wet 
but  familiar,  and  breathed  his  confidence  in  her  ear.  Still 
champing  her  bit,  though  more  with  the  terror  for  a  danger 


286  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

past,  she  submitted  her  head  to  his  guidance  and  they  forded 
through  the  flood.  But  even  now  their  progress  was  labored 
and  unsure.  This  constant  beat  of  waves  breast  high,  and 
blinding  spray  that  the  wind  cut  from  their  leaping  pinnacles 
and  cast  like  scorned  jewels  in  the  Doctor's  eyes,  stung  and 
blinded  him.  From  the  gig  he  had  been  clear  of  these 
assaults,  and  free  of  bufferings  to  peer  through  the  darkness 
and  pick  direction  in  periods  of  tolerable  calm.  As  he 
struggled  in  this  frigid  riot  of  water,  all  his  time  was 
taken  for  defense:  warding  the  spray;  stemming  the  weight 
of  waves  that  struck  him;  dashing  the  wetness  from  his 
lashes  with  the  back  of  a  hand.  And,  clad  as  he  was,  clogged 
in  clinging  garments,  water  soaked,  this  incessant  buffeting 
dazed  and  harassed  him.  Wave  after  wave  rolled  up  against 
his  body ;  the  constant  multiplication  of  blows  seemed  to  bear 
down  the  resistance  of  his  reason ;  the  mind,  so  continuously 
assaulted,  began  to  lose  its  power  of  concentration.  No 
beacon  led  him ;  no  bell-buoys  marked  his  melancholy  course. 
He  was  but  a  sentient  point  in  all  this  tumult;  a  spark  of 
consciousness  pitting  itself  against  legioned  forces  that  drew 
their  power  from  the  infinite.  His  feet,  chilled  and  sod- 
dened,  told  him  nothing  of  the  nature  of  the  solid  stuff  he 
trod  on,  beneath  this  liquid  investiture.  From  time  to  time 
he  stooped  and  thrust  his  hand  below  the  water  to  seek  the 
fringe  of  roadside  grass  that  was  his  safety;  nearly  always 
he  found  himself  strayed  from  it  in  but  a  few  paces  —  borne 
irresistibly  astray  by  these  unceasing  forces.  All  the  road- 
way under  water  measured,  at  most,  no  more  than  a  couple 
of  hundred  yards  —  in  probability,  less  —  and  already  he 
seemed  to  have  been  battling  with  the  elements  for  centuries. 
Still  he  could  discern  no  nearance  of  the  point  aimed  at. 
Spraith  thrust  out  her  blinding  periodic  ray,  and  left  the 
night  blacker,  but  lent  no  help;  the  light  offered  derision 
rather  than  comfort.  A  feeling  of  futility  crept  over  him, 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  287 

born  of  numbness.  Surely  he  was  not  living  these  things, 
but  dreaming  them;  this  was  a  delirium,  no  experience. 
His  mind  had  given  way  and  he  was  suffering  a  madman's 
delusion.  Let  him  lie  down  on  these  leaping  pillows  and 
sink  to  sleep.  To-morrow,  he  would  awake  and  find  they 
were  his  bed.  Mechanically  he  dipped  his  hand  to  grope 
for  the  dyke-side  grass,  while  the  waves  slapped  his  cheek, 
and  found  it,  by  dint  of  successive  plunges,  a  yard  or  so  away 
from  him.  And  all  at  once  a  light  —  stupendous  in  its  bril- 
liancy—  burst  out  in  the  darkness  ahead  of  them;  a  great 
stable  lantern  of  seemingly  gigantic  proportions,  projecting 
the  shadows  of  its  metal  framework  far  into  the  night  like 
solid  extensions;  beams  of  blackest  oak  rather  than  light's 
intangible  contrary.  The  Doctor  halted,  holding  the  mare's 
head;  the  light  made  a  swift  diagonal,  oscillating  its  beams, 
dipped,  leaving  but  a  halo  above  it,  that  outlined  the  rise  of 
road  the  Doctor  aimed  at,  came  in  sight  again,  and  sank 
finally  to  where  its  rays  smote  the  water's  leaping  edge. 

"  Yon's  Martin !  "  cried  the  boy  from  the  gig.  "  He  seed 
us  fro'  stackgarth  end."  At  the  same  moment  the  lantern 
hailed  them  with  a  human  "  Hello ! "  that  mitigated  like 
magic  the  hostile  violence  of  these  waters,  and  made  their 
plight  seem  puny.  Not  more  than  thirty  yards  of  flood 
divided  them  from  their  friendly  beacon ;  and  though  it 
helped  to  augment  and  make  interminable  the  vastness  of 
the  tide  through  which  they  forded,  the  Doctor  gave  back  a 
brisk  "  Hello !  "  and  waded  towards  the  light  with  almost 
reckless  energy. 

"  Come  straightways  along  wi'  ye,"  they  heard  the  voice 
of  Martin  cry  through  a  lull  in  the  blast.  "  You've  a  sheer 
road,  and  lantern's  set  plumb  i'  middle  on  her.  That's  right. 
Dean't  bear  ower  much  ti  yon  side  —  pull  a  foot  ti  your 
left." 

Thus  directed,  and  pressing  onward,  the  Doctor  suddenly 


288  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

cast  this  wetness  from  him  as  a  woman  sheds  a  skirt;  rose 
like  a  dripping  sea-deity  out  of  the  flood,  beneath  the  upheld 
lantern,  and  met,  with  words  of  gratitude  on  his  cold  lips,  the 
farmer's  exclamation  of  surprise.  "  By  Go' !  It's  you  an' 
all,  Doctor  ?  " 

The  Doctor  squeezed  the  water  out  of  his  trousers  and 
dripped  his  hands. 

"  Aye,  it's  me,  Martin,"  he  said.  "  Or  it  was  when  I  left 
yam." 

"  What  i'  the  name  o'  fortun' !  "  cried  the  farmer,  survey- 
ing the  saturated  figure.  "  Lord,  but  you  mud  'a  been  lig- 
gin'  i'  yon  dyke  as  easy  as  nought  a  night  like  this  —  and 
then  what!  What  ...  an'  Jack  Thatcher's  set  up 
alang  wi'  ye?  Nay,  dean't  stand  there,  mun  —  come  your 
ways  in  and  let's  get  ye  some  dry  things.  Ye'll  catch  your 
deead  o'  cold  i'  them." 

The  Doctor  knew  the  soundness  of  the  counsel,  but  a 
perverse  heroism  that  is  mere  disregard  of  all  consequences 
in  so  far  as  they  affect  self,  impelled  him. 

"  That's  good  of  you,  Martin,"  he  said,  pulling  himself 
into  the  trap,  "  but  I've  a  patient  to  think  of  —  and  there's 
but  a  step  further  to  drive.  I'll  dry  myself  before  Thatch- 
er's fire."  The  farmer,  after  his  first  solicitude,  showed  a 
tendency  to  expand  in  broader  discussion  of  the  disasters  of 
this  night;  the  costly  ravages  of  wind  and  water,  but  the 
Doctor  dropped  acquiescence  and  a  cheery  good-night,  and 
promising  to  stop  and  thank  his  benefactor  at  greater  length 
the  next  time  he  drove  by,  flicked  the  mare  once  more  to 
movement. 


XXXV 

BUT  a  few  minutes'  more  buffeting  by  the  wind  and 
they  turned  up  the  rutted  occupation  lane  to  Thatcher's 
farm,  where  a  square  lamplit  window  proclaimed  expect- 
ants in  the  kitchen.  As  the  gig  wheels  crunched  upon  peb- 
bles and  ground  fragments  of  brick  with  which  the  ruts 
were  rudely  mended,  a  second  rectangle  of  light  opened  out 
in  the  darkness  by  the  window,  framing  the  black  figure  of 
a  woman.  The  Doctor  jumped  to  ground,  stiff  and  heavy, 
and  beat  his  arms  twice  or  thrice  together  for  a  circulation 
that  commenced  to  flag. 

"  Loose  the  mare  out,  my  lad,"  said  he  to  his  companion  of 
the  drive,  "  and  give  her  a  rub  down  before  she  has  her 
supper." 

He  patted  the  velvet  nostrils  that  turned  round  as  though 
to  seek  some  token  of  commendation,  at  the  sound  of  his 
voice,  and  trumpeted  warmth  into  his  neck. 

"  Poor  old  Kitty.  You've  earned  your  feed,  my  girl. — 
Can  you  manage  ?  " 

The  boy  said,  "  Aye ;  I'se  unyoked  her  before." 

The  Doctor  turned  to  the  waiting  figure.     "  Now,  mother." 

"  You've  come  then,  Doctor.  I  began  to  be  i'  fears  you 
wouldn't." 

"  Why?     Didn't  you  send  for  me?  " 

"Aye.     But  with  a  night  like  this — ' 

"  When  has  the  weather  stopped  me  ?  " 

"  Not  oft." 

"  Well    then     .     .     ."     He    stamped   one    foot   after   the 

19  289 


2QO  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

other  on  the  cracked  doorflag.  "  Don't  lose  faith  in  me  yet  a 
bit.  How's  the  lass?" 

"  I  doubt  you'll  say  she's  badlins  when  you  see  her. 
Come  your  ways  in." 

She  withdrew  from  the  door  and  he  followed  her  into  the 
red-tiled  kitchen,  lighted  by  a  fragile  one-wick  china  lamp 
on  the  square  center  table,  but  drawing  the  bulk  of  its 
illumination  from  the  flames  that  leaped  cheerily  up  the 
chimney  from  the  log-fed  grate.  Evidences  of  a  recent  meal 
still  littered  the  table,  spread  out  with  agricultural  pro- 
fusion on  the  covering  of  rose-patterned  oilcloth;  empty 
blue-hooped  basins,  with  Britannia-metal  spoons  a-cockbill 
in  them,  that  but  a  while  before  had  been  smoking  reposi- 
tories of  bread  and  milk;  the  remains  of  a  miscellany  pie 
in  a  great  oven-browned  dish,  the  knuckle-end  of  a  ham; 
cheese,  and  the  eternal  cheesecake.  Thatcher  himself,  drawn 
up  in  a  straight  high-backed  chair  to  the  far  corner  of  the 
table  between  this  and  the  fireplace,  sideways  to  both, 
appeared  to  be  protracting  in  lonely  grandeur  the  meal  from 
which  all  other  worshipers  of  the  belly-god  were  gone.  A 
dog  at  his  knee  thudded  the  hearth-mat  with  his  tail. 
The  Doctor,  unconcernedly  encouraging  the  dog  to  friend- 
ship with  snapping  thumb  and  finger,  tossed  a  greeting  to 
the  trencherman,  who  thrust  the  gravy-streaked  knife  blade 
between  his  lips  as  though  slitting  a  pig,  and  cried  a  welcom- 
ing "  Noo,  sir  "  on  its  withdrawal,  no  veins  being  severed, 
apparently.  "  A  roughish  night  for  you,  this." 

"  It  blows  a  bit,"  said  the  Doctor,  and  added  a  quick 
"  Hello ! "  for  his  eye  caught  sight  of  a  second  chair  drawn 
up  to  the  hearth,  where  a  childish  figure  wrapped  up  in  a 
gray  plaid  shawl,  and  eased  with  patchwork  cushions,  lay 
back  in  flushed  exhaustion  and  drew  a  labored  breath.  The 
Doctor  stepped  quickly  forward  and  stooped  over  the  small 
face;  took  up  the  wrist  and  held  it;  laid  his  hand  upon  the 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  291 

dull  burning  forehead ;  turned  up  the  half-closed  eyelid  and 
looked  with  an  altered  intentness  at  the  distressed  nostrils 
laboring  in  their  fight  to  win  a  little  breath. 

"  Let's  have  the  lamp,"  he  said.  "  How  long  has  she  been 
like  this?" 

The  woman  began  to  measure  time  doubtingly. 

"  Why  .  .  ."  threw  in  the  farmer,  scraping  the  dish. 
"  She's  nivver  aught  but  a  wreckling  at  best  o'  times.  I'm 
sure  one  dizn't  knaw  what  ti  mek  on  her." 

"  She  semt  ti  loss  her  appetite  o'  Monday,"  his  wife  took 
up,  "  but  it  wasn't  while  yesterday  she  spoke  about  her 
throat." 

"  You  ought  to  have  sent  for  me  sooner  than  this,"  the 
Doctor  exclaimed.  "  Why  didn't  you  ?  " 

The  woman  caught  the  note  of  grave  remonstrance  in  his 
voice.  "  It's  not  .  .  .  not,"  she  said.  A  sudden  flush 
of  tears  completed  the  sense  of  the  fear  at  which  her  lips 
stumbled.  "  I  did  want  to  send  yesterday.  I  semt  as 
though  I  couldn't  sattle.  But  master  said  .  .  ." 

"  Why,"  cried  the  farmer  in  sheepish  defense,  dropping 
his  eyes  quickly  before  the  Doctor's  look.  "  I  nivver 
thought.  I  didn't  like  troubling  on  ye.  Missus  would  be 
sending  for  you  yance  a  fortnet  if  anybody'd  let  her.  An' 
there's  yon  last  bill  o'  yours  aback  o'  chimbley  yonder."  He 
added  apologetically :  "  I'se  not  forgotten  it,  if  missus  has. 
I  know  very  well  I  wish  bill  was  paid  —  but  times  dizn't 
mend  i'  this  part  o'  country." 

"  By  God,  Thatcher,"  the  Doctor  interposed,  without  other 
warmth  than  the  words  themselves  imparted,  "  put  the  bill 
on  the  fire,  man,  if  it's  too  big  for  you.  I'm  not  a  bailiff. 
You  ought  to  know  that  by  this  time.  I've  been  in  your 
kitchen  often  enough." 

The  relief  for  a  difficulty  disposed  of  showed  in  the  far- 
mer's cleared  brow  and  admissive  lips. 


292  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

"  Why  noo,"  he  confessed,  "  I  know  very  well  there's  not 
another  chap  i'  the  warld  like  you.  But  I  feels  I  dizn't  like 
to  overdo  your  kindness  .  .  ." 

The  Doctor  was  not  listening  to  this  laudation.  Instead, 
he  stooped  over  the  sick  child  while  the  mother  held  the 
lamp  above  him,  sharpening  her  apprehensions  on  his  silence, 
and  striving  to  win  from  a  surreptitious  study  of  his  cheek 
what  she  dreaded  from  his  lips.  All  her  stored  fears  were 
being  heaped  on  the  scales  at  this  moment ;  she  saw  the  bal- 
ance-beam rock  ominously ;  the  breathing  in  its  stolid  absorp- 
tion grew  stertorous;  the  bovine  bosom,  rising  and  sinking 
hugely,  made  the  lamp  to  swerve.  She  saw  the  Doctor  lay 
a  tender  hand  upon  the  flushed  hot  temples,  draw  gently 
down  the  chin  and  take  his  sight  of  the  awful  mysteries 
beyond.  The  dreadful  yellow  membrane  met  his  gaze  hor- 
ribly extended,  and  the  action  roused  a  horrid  suffocating 
cough  that  told  him  all  too  clearly  the  worst  of  what  he 
sought  to  know.  He  let  go  the  child's  head  ringed  with  its 
flaxen  curls,  and  rose  to  the  upright  again. 

"Well,  Doctor?" 

"  Is  your  kettle  on  the  boil  ?  "  He  rendered  no  answer  to 
her  question. 

"There  should  be  a  sup  in  her." 

"  I  may  need  more  than  a  sup.  And  there's  my  bag  under 
the  seat  in  the  gig  outside.  Just  fetch  it,  Thatcher.  Look 
sharp,  man.  I  shall  want  this  table  cleared."  The  Doctor 
showed  uppermost  in  him  all  at  once,  and  the  woman  had  no 
need  to  repeat  her  question.  For  she  divined  what  the 
Doctor  knew :  that  this  was  to  be  a  fight  for  her  child's  life 
to  the  bitter  finish.  Already  those  virulent  poisons  had  got 
the  start  and  were  working  ahead  of  him;  in  his  heart  he 
doubted  whether  he  could  overtake  or  subdue  them,  and  to 
himself  he  cursed  the  ignorance  of  these  people  and  the 
stupidity  of  their  messenger  that  had  brought  him  so  little 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  293 

prepared  for  a  task  like  this.  For  these  were  diphtheria's 
more  dreaded  days.  Treatment  by  antitoxin  was,  for  remote 
practitioners,  but  a  name,  a  principle  comprehended  rather 
than  established.  Probably  at  this  time  the  remedial  serum 
was  in  use  experimentally  at  the  big  Hunmouth  hospital, 
and  from  that  source  the  Doctor  might  have  been  able  to 
procure  the  phials;  but  the  efficacy  of  the  treatment  was 
still  subject  to  controversy,  and  even  had  it  been  otherwise, 
there  was  not  the  slightest  possibility  of  applying  its  benefits 
to  a  distant  case  like  this.  The  telegraph  office  at  Beaching- 
ton  would  be  closed  till  the  morning;  with  every  assistance 
from  wire  and  rail  and  willing  horsemanship,  no  hope  could 
come  from  Hunmouth  before  the  morrow  noon.  And  they 
were  not  fighting  hours  now,  but  moments  —  those  minute 
components  of  time  whose  formidable  stature  grows  with 
every  subdivision,  so  that  seconds  in  this  paradox  of  need 
become  as  giants,  the  hours  pigmy  by  proportion.  Truly 
to-night  must  take  its  place  in  the  Doctor's  calendar  as  a 
night  of  combat.  Already  he  had  jousted  with  the  elements ; 
now,  all  wet  and  weary,  he  must  joust  again.  He  drew  off 
his  saturated  coat  and  held  his  chill  body  a  moment  to  the 
comfortable  blaze.  The  farmer's  wife,  red  about  the  eyes, 
and  spilling  tears  as  she  moved,  stirred  rapidly  to  do  the 
Doctor's  bidding. 

"  After  all  care  I've  ta'en  on  her,"  she  sniffed. 

"  Come,  come,"  cried  the  Doctor.  "  We're  not  giving  in 
yet.  But  it's  diphtheria  that  we  have  to  deal  with,  and 
you've  let  it  go  far."  Thatcher  came  through  the  door 
bearing  the  well-worn  bag;  his  son  followed  him  with  hang- 
dog head,  rubbed  his  feet  awkwardly  on  the  mat,  looked 
about  for  a  vacant  peg  over  the  settle,  hooked  up  his  hat, 
flattened  his  hair  with  a  hand,  and  seated  himself  in  silence. 
His  mother,  moving  the  supper  things  to  a  side  table,  indi- 
cated a  knife  and  fork  at  the  end  of  it.  "  Ye  mun  sit  your 


294  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

ways  here."  He  took  the  place  appointed  without  any  look 
at  the  invalid,  seeming  to  avoid  the  sight  of  suffering  with 
such  discretion  as  a  visitor  might  ignore  a  hole  in  the  carpet. 
Silent,  he  took  up  knife  and  fork  in  clubbed  hands,  and  with 
uplifted  elbows  —  as  though  he  were  endeavoring  to  extri- 
cate himself  from  some  narrow  difficulty  —  embarked  upon  a 
furtive  meal.  Thatcher,  not  less  uneasy  than  his  son  in 
the  face  of  extremity,  consigned  the  Doctor's  bag  to  the 
table  and  appeared  to  seek  extinction  on  the  settle,  but  the 
Doctor,  busy  with  his  preparations,  called  upon  the  farmer's 
services  again. 

"  I  shall  want  some  feathers,"  he  said.  "  Don't  sit  down, 
man;  keep  on  your  feet.  I've  not  done  with  you.  Good 
long  wing  feathers  —  such  as  you  grease  your  cart  axles 
with.  And  a  cork,"  he  added  to  the  farmer's  wife,  who  had 
cleared  the  big  table  of  its  recent  garniture  and  waited  anx- 
iously on  his  word.  "  Any  kind  will  do.  Don't  you  keep 
your  old  corks  in  yon  far  drawer,  there  —  along  with  the  car- 
tridges ? "  She  cried,  "  Aye,  to  be  sure  .  .  .  I'se  not 
thinking,"  and  drew  out  a  handful,  dusting  them  on  her  apron 
with  an  involuntary  movement  as  though  they  were  apples. 
He  picked  one,  and  asked  now  for  a  piece  of  twine,  which  the 
same  drawer  yielded.  With  these  he  improvised  a  gag, 
tying  the  twine  securely  round  the  cork's  middle.  Then  he 
called  for  basin  and  kettle  and  hastily  mixed  a  warm  anti- 
septic wash,  whose  temperature  he  tried  with  a  cautious  fin- 
ger, and  approved.  He  had  no  potassium  permanganate  or 
boracic  acid,  but  fortunately  his  case  contained  a  small  quan- 
tity of  carbolic,  which  he  used  for  the  dilution  instead. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  and  took  the  half-unconscious  child  in 
his  arms.  "  I  want  her  lying  on  this  table.  Just  roll  up 
that  shawl,  mother,  and  slip  it  under  her  neck.  There. 
That  will  do  nicely.  Now  you'll  have  to  hold  the  lamp 
again,  and  I  shall  want  you,  Thatcher,  to  take  hold  of  her 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  295 

hands.     Don't  grip   them;   just   keep   her   from   struggling, 
that's  all." 

Both  fell  silently  into  station  as  he  told  them,  and  gently 
coaxing  apart  the  child's  teeth,  he  introduced  his  gag;  the 
long  ends  of  the  string  being  left  loose  to  allow  for  the 
cork's  safe  recovery  in  case  of  any  accidental  displacement 
into  the  mouth  itself.  Thereat,  dropping  his  feather  into 
the  basin,  the  Doctor  commenced  his  work  to  combat  the 
purulent  formation  on  the  patient's  throat  that  threatened 
to  overgrow  the  air-passages  and  choke  her.  Even  as  he 
took  up  the  task  his  heart  was  a  doubter.  Already  the 
spurious  membrane  threatened  the  nose  and  eustachian 
tubes;  downward  he  feared  its  encroachment  was  more 
serious  still.  And  the  symptoms  of  diphtheric  paralysis 
showed  how  far  the  poisons  were  at  work  within  this  puny 
system.  But,  constrained  now  and  then  to  desist  by  the  con- 
vulsive cough  and  protesting  paroxysms  of  a  throat  resent- 
ing this  abrupt  intrusion  and  the  child's  murmuring  struggles, 
he  persevered.  Seizing  each  available  opportunity,  he  plied 
his  slender  antiseptic  feather.  A  silence  fell  over  the  kitchen 
as  he  worked;  the  faces  of  all  his  watchers  changed,  seemed 
to  coalesce  slowly  with  those  other  features,  gray  and 
dreaded.  Death,  scared  of  his  own  presentment,  peered  ap- 
prehensively out  of  their  eyes  and  gazed  along  with  them. 
The  boy,  laying  down  his  knife  and  fork  at  the  conclusion  of 
a  bolted  meal,  shed  his  boots  clumsily  by  the  table  end,  and 
stole  away,  cowed,  in  his  stocking-feet  to  bed,  mumbling 
an  averted  "  Good-night,  all "  between  downcast  lips :  a 
ghost  precipitate.  The  farmer,  reduced  to  a  grim  vestige  of 
his  former  self,  stood  holding  down  the  child's  hands ;  the 
upper  lip  tucked  desperately  into  the  lower;  breathing 
heavily  through  his  nose;  a  bull  ringed  up  to  the  felling 
block.  His  wife,  seeing  already  her  child  passed  out  of  the 
first  circle  of  her  care,  in  a  dread  zone  where  mere  mater- 


296  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

nity  had  no  place  or  power  —  prophetic  of  a  sterner  re- 
moval —  held  the  lamp  with  alternate  hands,  and  sighed  now 
and  again  from  the  heart,  like  an  echo  of  the  wind  outside. 

Yet  the  rigors  and  the  spasms  of  suffocation  gained  on 
them,  despite  the  busy  feather.  The  flapping  nose-wings 
and  the  rattling  difficulty  of  breathing  showed,  for  all  the 
Doctor's  labor,  through  what  constricted  air-ways  the  breath 
was  having  to  be  drawn.  The  passages  for  this  precious 
principle  of  life  were  almost  closed.  No  doctor's  eye  was 
needed  to  tell  the  gravity  of  the  moment  now.  Father  and 
mother,  gazing  down  upon  that  tortured  countenance  of  the 
child,  saw  plainly  but  an  arena  —  its  placid  surface  torn  up 
in  the  combat  —  where  death  and  life  strove  thigh  to  thigh, 
and  life  drooped.  The  Doctor  lay  down  his  feather  and 
drew  back  a  space,  a  hand  on  each  hip,  his  brow  gathered. 
The  farmer  unfolded  his  lips  to  ask :  "  Ha'  ye  finished,  Doc- 
tor?" 

"For  a  while     .     .     .     Yes." 

He  let  go  the  hands  and  passed  the  back  of  his  own  great 
hand  across  his  eyes,  as  though  to  rub  out  the  sight  of  what 
he  had  witnessed. 

"  I  can't  fairlins  bide  it,  Doctor.  And  I  can  bide  as  much 
as  most  men."  He  turned  away.  "  Aye,  poor  bairn,  poor 
bairn." 

The  woman,  still  holding  the  lamp,  drew  in  her  bosom  to 
something  like  a  sob.  "  It's  bad  to  part  wi'  any  on  'em," 
she  said.  "  For  all  we've  six." 

"  Just  when  she'd  gotten  to  be  a  bit  o'  use  to  anybody," 
the  farmer  added.  "  She  could  mek  bands  as  well  as  a  man 
ommost.  An'  tent  pigs." 

"  I  nobbut  bought  her  a  new  frock  last  Anniversary,"  his 
wife  said.  "  If  she  was  to  be  spared  us,  she'd  wear  it  again 
this." 

"  Aye,  you've  looked  after  her,  missus,"  Thatcher  threw 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  297 

in.  "  There's  no  bairn  this  way  roond  been  better  done  to. 
Bread  and  meat  and  chissuks  "  (cheesecakes)  "  i'  her  basket 
when  she  sets  off  to  school.  As  much  as  ever  lass  could 
twine  intiv  her  —  and  more.  Many's  the  time  she's  brought 
main  part  on  it  back." 

A  paroxysm  on  the  little  patient's  part  checked  the  speech 
on  their  lips  all  at  once,  and  smote  their  mouths  to  mere 
loose  circles  of  apprehension.  The  struggle  for  breath  was 
momentarily  more  desperate;  the  body  rose  upon  an  arc  of 
spine  in  its  endeavor  to  reach  the  vital  element  shut  off  from 
it.  The  farmer  blew  an  unbearable  "  Bff  "  through  his  lips, 
like  the  snorting  of  a  horse. 

"  It's  warse  to  watch  bairn  suffer  than  to  bide  it,"  he  said. 

His  wife  laid  down  the  lamp  and  put  spread  fingers  to  her 
brow ;  perspiration  oozed  out  of  her  forehead,  drawn  by  the 
sight  of  a  suffering  beyond  her  aid. 

"  Can  nought  be  done,  Doctor  ?  Must  bairn  choke  before 
our  eyes  ?  " 

"  There  is  only  one  thing,"  the  Doctor  said.  He  had  been 
watching  the  threatening  struggles  and  debating  it  this  while, 
and  now  he  knew  the  thing  inevitable.  "  I  had  hoped  we 
might  avoid  it.  But  we  cannot  ...  I  shall  have  to 
open  the  trachea."  They  acquiesced  in  dumb  submission 
before  the  dread  incomprehended  word;  watched  him  help- 
lessly out  of  wondering  eyes  as  he  drew  his  pocket-case  from 
the  bosom  of  the  great  overcoat.  Only  when  the  sinister 
small  blade  of  the  scalpel  glittered  in  the  Doctor's  fingers 
did  the  farmer  arouse  from  his  lethargy  of  helplessness  to 
understanding. 

"  Nay,"  he  said  suddenly.  "  Put  knife  down,  man.  I 
wean't  have  her  cut." 

"  It  is  her  last  chance,"  the  Doctor  said. 

"  If  we'm  to  lose  her,  then  we  mun  lose  her,"  the  farmer 
argued  obstinately.  "  But  bairn  shall  die  i'  peace.  I  let 


298  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

nobody  lift  hand  again  her  when  she  was  wick,  and  I  don't 
noo  she's  half  dead." 

"  Nonsense,  man ! "  the  Doctor  retorted  upon  him. 
"  There's  just  the  chance  we  may  save  her.  Pull  up  your 
pluck  and  take  hold  of  her  hands  again.  Give  me  a  couple 
of  hairpins,  mother."  She  drew  them  out  of  her  hair,  and 
the  Doctor  bent  one  after  the  other  to  the  rude  shape  of  a 
spread  hook. 

The  woman,  all  her  mother's  instinct  in  revolt  at  the  sight 
of  the  cruel  blade,  uttered  a  beseeching  "Oh,  Doctor! 
.  .  .  Div  ye  think  it  can  do  her  any  good?  I'se  feared 
to  see  it." 

"  Nay,  then  thoo  needn't  be  feared,"  Thatcher  cried  de- 
terminedly. "  For  he  wean't  use  yon  knife  while  I  stand  i' 
this  kitchen.  What  else  but  knife  killed  my  uncle?  Aye, 
as  stout  and  bonny  a  man  as  onnybody  mud  mish  to  see. 
They  took  him  to  Oommuth  yan  Tuesday  morning,  and  he 
never  spoke  a  word  after.  But  for  that  he  wad  be  living 
noo,  very  like.  Put  yon  thing  away,  Doctor." 

"  Are  you  mad,  man  ?  "  the  Doctor  threw  at  him.  "  Noth- 
ing can  save  her  now,  but  this.  The  child's  throat  is  made 
up.  She  can't  draw  a  thread  of  air  through  it." 

"  We've  all  gotten  oor  time  ti  gan,"  the  farmer  answered. 
"  An'  when  we  mun  gan  we  mun  gan.  Div  ye  think  a  bit  o' 
steel  like  yon  will  do  onny  good  if  God  means  tekkin'  on 
her?  Sin'  His  mind's  made  up,  so's  mine." 

"  Just  a  prick  in  the  throat,"  the  Doctor  urged.  "  To  let 
a  little  air  in.  By  Lord,  Thatcher,  I  shall  do  it  despite  you. 
If  she  dies  like  this  you're  a  murderer  —  do  you  hear  ?  " 
The  paroxysm  came  on  again.  "  Look,  man.  Quick.  Take 
her  hands." 

The  farmer  cast  a  glance  at  the  agonized  countenance,  his 
own  face  working.  "  Nay  .  .  ."  he  cried.  "  I  wean't 
.  .  ."  and  took  them  tightly  with  averted  head. 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  299 

"  Hold  up  the  lamp."  The  Doctor  stooped  quickly,  re- 
adjusted the  roll  beneath  the  neck  to  throw  back  the  purple 
head  and  raise  the  trachea.  Then,  without  hesitation,  the 
keen  point  of  steel  touched  the  throat  and  sank  swiftly  in, 
tracing  a  crimson  streak  down  the  white  flesh.  An  answer- 
ing spasm  from  the  little  patient  met  the  blade,  and  the  farm- 
er, whose  own  breathing  was  become  so  stertorous  as  to 
partake  almost  of  the  nature  of  a  groan,  had  to  strap  his 
twitching  lips  together  and  exercise  his  strength  to  restrain 
the  tortured  figure,  whose  struggles  added  a  deeper  peril  to 
the  doctor's  knife.  The  Doctor  himself,  as  though  become 
the  insentient  instrument  of  some  fierce  decree,  paid  no 
heed  to  these  evidences  of  suffering.  While  all  the  other 
breathing  about  him  was  turbulent  and  distracted,  his  own 
was  curiously  stilled;  responsibility  served  only  to  steady 
his  hand  and  lend  a  keener  determination  to  his  eye.  The 
point  of  the  scalpel  in  his  fingers  moved  within  a  labyrinth 
of  dangers,  he  knew ;  magnified  by  the  spasmodic  movements 
of  the  living  material  he  worked  in.  Now  he  had  of  a  sud- 
den to  desist,  in  order  to  put  aside  some  intercepting  artery. 
Now,  with  tightened  lips,  he  was  severing  the  treacherous 
envelope  of  venous  tissue  that  hides,  in  childhood,  the  deep- 
seated  trachea  from  view,  while  the  engorged  blood  gushed 
furiously  at  first  about  the  blade  and  threatened  all  his  skill. 
But  working  thus  resolutely  —  yet  with  a  grim  caution  — 
(providence  being  his  helper,  as  it  seemed)  he  pushed  his 
work  to  its  conclusion.  All  suddenly  his  watchers  heard  in 
the  contracted  stillness  of  the  kitchen  the  suck  of  air  through 
the  punctured  trachea  at  last.  For  a  brief  while  the  child's 
heightened  struggles  and  the  horrid  whistling  through  the 
bleeding  orifice  seemed  but  prefatory  of  violent  dissolution  ; 
but  even  as  the  mother  gave  utterance  to  a  lamentable  cry 
of  grief  the  tortured  body  relaxed  its  quivering  sinews  to 
a  state  of  prostrate  calm.  Quickly  the  Doctor  affixed  his 


300  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

improvised  hooks  to  each  edge  of  the  incision  and  drew 
them  apart  by  means  of  the  string  passing  through  them 
and  secured  beneath  the  child's  neck.  A  little  blood  still 
trickled  from  the  gaping  wound,  but  very  little.  He  wiped 
away  a  lengthening  thread  of  it  that  crept  like  a  red  worm 
down  the  white  flesh,  and  turned  upon  his  helpers.  "  It's 
done.  Cheer  up,  mother." 

The  mother  put  down  the  lamp  unsteadily  without  a  word, 
all  her  body  rent  with  sudden  sobs  that  shook  her  as  though 
she  wrestled  with  an  unseen  adversary.  Thatcher,  unrecog- 
nizable beneath  a  profusion  of  faces  that  seemed  striving 
among  themselves  for  the  mastery  of  him,  released  the  list- 
less hands.  In  that  first  moment  he  reeled  like  a  drunken 
man,  dizzy  with  the  sickness  of  an  agony  shared,  and  sought 
the  fireplace,  where  he  laid  his  left  arm  against  the  black- 
painted  mantel  and  leaned  his  brow  upon  it,  staring  down 
into  the  flames.  The  Doctor,  sensible  of  an  emotion  almost 
palpable,  that  lent  a  pulse  to  the  very  stillness  all  about  him, 
succumbed  suddenly  to  its  influence,  acrid  about  his  eyes  and 
nostrils.  For  a  moment  the  little  girlish  figure,  drawing  its 
breath  of  animation  through  that  ghastly  crevice  held  open 
by  the  cruel  hooks,  swam  somewhat  before  him.  But  he 
mastered  the  tyranny,  and  as  soon  as  he  was  sure  of  his 
own  voice,  broke  the  silence  cheerily  with  it. 

"Come,  Thatcher,"  he  cried.  "The  worst's  over.  We 
may  make  a  woman  of  her  yet,  and  some  day,  perhaps,  you'll 
live  to  bless  this  little  knife.  If  only  her  heart  stands  it." 

The  farmer  withdrew  slowly  from  his  place  by  the  fire, 
wiping  his  coat-sleeve  across  his  brow. 

"  I've  killed  as  many  as  four  pigs  i'  yan  day  at  Christmas 
time,"  said  he.  "  Aye,  and  some  on  'em  weighing  close  on 
thotty  stean.  But  I  couldn't  tek  up  your  trade,  man.  No, 
not  for  a  thousand  pounds.  I  dean't  know  how  ye  bide  it. 
Onnybody  mud  think  ye'd  gotten  no  feelings." 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  301 

To  this  night,  indeed,  the  inquiring  historian  may  trace 
not  a  few  of  the  varied  later  myths  of  the  Sunfleet  Doctor. 
Thatcher,  rising  bit  by  bit  with  the  aid  of  time  to  a  state  of 
hyperaesthesia,  began  to  see,  with  the  opening  of  this  exalted 
eye,  many  things  not  clearly  perceived  in  the  hour  of  despair. 
To  open-mouthed  listeners  he  described,  with  pictorial  ver- 
nacular, the  look  that  raced  over  the  Doctor's  countenance 
when  he  drew  forth  his  knife.  It  was,  said  he,  another  man. 
"  I  telt  him,"  Thatcher  was  wont  to  record,  "  that  I  wadn't 
let  him  touch  bairn  wi'  it.  Ye  sewd  'a  seed  Doctor's  face. 
'  By  God,  man ! '  he  says,  *  stand  back,  or  there'll  be  murder 
betwixt  us.  I  never  drew  this  knife  yit  but  I  sucked  blood 
wi'  her.  She  gans  inti  somebody  to-night  —  aye!  and  deep 
—  or  I'se  a  Dutchman.'  And  she  wad  a'  gan  into  me  an' 
all,"  Thatcher  added,  quite  conscientiously,  "  if  I'd  tried  ti 
stop  him.  He'd  gotten  his  lips  set  tiv  it  like  a  dog."  All 
which  has  given  some  countenance  to  a  belief  that  the  Sun- 
fleet  Doctor  could  be,  at  times,  a  violent  man,  and  was  as 
partial  to  the  knife,  by  trade,  as  a  hired  assassin.  But  the 
manipulation  of  the  weapon  was  chronicled  in  breath  of  radi- 
ant admiration ;  a  sort  of  golden  sunset  glorifying  the  sinking 
edges  of  a  storm.  The  Doctor  handled  it  like  a  pen ;  stuck 
it  into  the  throat  quicker  than  a  man  could  write  his  name ; 
the  bairn  never  uttered  a  cry. 

"  Aye !  an'  him  wet  thruff  ti  skin  at  time,"  Thatcher  was 
wont  to  add.  "  As  soon  as  he  set  knife  doon  he  tremmled 
frev  head  to  foot  like  a  reed.  I  thought  job  had  fair  over- 
mastered him,  till  he  says,  '  By  Gum,  Thatcher !  these  clothes 
nips  cold,  man.  Fetch  me  some  dry  things  and  I'll  slip  inti 
them  afore  fire,  nobbut  missus  '11  turn  her  back." 


XXXVI 

THAT  blind  weaver  who  sits  at  the  loom  of  destiny, 
fashioning  the  fabric  of  our  mortal  lives,  works  strange 
surprises  into  his  pattern.  Threads  that  have  been  hidden 
behind  the  woof  of  days,  until  we  think  them  lost  to  the 
design,  flash  up  all  suddenly  anew,  and  show  themselves  part 
of  the  eternal  warp.  On  this  wild  day  of  March  Julian 
Alston  comes  back  into  our  history. 

Pridgeon,  driving  home  from  Hunmouth  —  where  he  has 
been  converting  the  last  acres  of  his  hereditary  soil  into 
parchment,  with  nothing  now  much  more  substantial  be- 
tween himself  and  them  than  his  own  exertions  —  comes  upon 
the  blind-eyed  man  some  four  miles  out  of  the  seaport.  The 
farmer  is  driving  a  young  half-broken  horse,  with  a  head  like 
a  pickaxe,  and  legs  that  show  a  horrid  extensive  capacity  for 
striking  both  sides  of  the  road  at  once,  so  that,  in  moments 
of  alarm,  it  seems  to  make  two  of  itself.  He  sings  as  he 
drives,  snatches  of  sudden  song  that  make  his  steed  swerve 
violently  to  the  right  and  left  in  quick  succession  and  up  into 
the  air  —  huge,  like  a  winged  thing,  poised  for  a  space,  with 
arched  forelegs,  as  though  taking  spring  for  flight ;  then  down 
come  the  ringed  hoofs,  one  after  the  other  with  the  rattle  of 
carronade,  and  for  awhile  the  farmer  cannot  hear  his  own 
song  for  the  wind  that  whistles  by.  In  such  a  spirit  as  this, 
of  a  sudden  he  shaves  dangerously  close  past  the  slouching 
figure  of  a  man.  The  stable  lantern  flashing  upon  the  pedes- 
trian's shoulders,  reveals  the  quick  upthrow  of  defensive 
right  arm,  the  half-turned  head,  as  the  startled  figure  leaps 
to  a  side  in  the  roadway  grass.  Probably  a  curse  accom- 

302 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  303 

panics  the  gesture ;  it  has  the  look  of  it,  but  the  farmer  does 
not  hear  this,  for  the  wind  is  blowing  from  the  north,  and 
the  whole  wall  of  heaven  seems  leaning  against  him  from  the 
east,  and  the  horse's  hoofs  sound  a  rataplan  upon  the  road- 
way. Pridgeon  cries  "Hello!"  and  "Whoa,  then!"  and 
puts  all  the  weight  of  his  two  brawny  arms  for  the  stoppage 
of  his  steed,  sawing  the  reins  to  a  hissing  sound  of  repres- 
sion through  his  clenched  teeth,  bare  of  lip  as  far  back  as  the 
bicuspids.  He  brings  the  horse,  trumpeting  and  smoking,  to 
a  restless  stay,  and  still  pulling  on  the  reins  —  that  resist 
him  like  a  tense  spring,  ready  to  catapult  him  forward  along 
the  road  again  —  looks  back  into  the  darkness,  crying,  "  D'ye 
want  a  lift?"  For  the  farmer  is  of  the  class  which  finds 
solitude  as  flat  to  the  heart  as  cold  water  to  the  palate.  Any 
sort  of  chance  company  is  preferable  to  it ;  plowboys,  cattle 
drovers,  tramps  even,  are  welcome  to  the  vacant  place  in  the 
cart  beside  him,  so  long  as  they  can  supply  a  "  Yes  "  or 
"  No "  to  his  breezy  interrogatives.  Strapping  the  reins 
round  his  right  wrist,  and  putting  his  foot  for  leverage 
against  the  dash-board,  he  unhooks  the  lantern  and  casts  its 
spreading  beams  backward  over  the  road.  It  shows  him  the 
figure  of  the  blind-eyed  man,  at  a  stooping  halt  in  the  grass 
behind,  as  though  debating  whether  to  incorporate  his  iden- 
tity with  the  darkness,  or  come  forward  and  accept  the 
farmer's  invitation.  Under  the  sudden  douche  of  lamplight, 
that  makes  his  one  eye  blink,  he  elects  to  do  the  latter  — 
draws  forward  to  the  trap  side,  sulkily  withal,  and  submits 
to  recognition.  Even  on  this  stormy  night,  beneath  the  rays 
of  the  wind-blown  lantern,  he  shows  tokens  of  external  bet- 
terment, that  the  farmer  is  prompt  to  notice,  though  the 
betterment  is  after  all  but  degeneracy  raised  to  a  higher 
stage  of  itself  —  no  real  prosperity  or  contentment  shows  in 
it.  He  carries  a  less  greasy  cap,  and  wears  an  overcoat  but- 
toned up  to  the  neck,  but  the  garments  and  his  way  of  wear- 


304  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

ing  them  seem  steeped  in  the  unmistakable  sense  of  dissolute- 
ness broodingly  at  war  with  the  world.  Beneath  the  slouch- 
ing shoulders  one  feels  instinctively  that  the  embers  of  a  forge 
are  darkly  smoldering;  but  a  breath  from  the  bellows  is 
needed  and  they  will  gleam  red  and  hot  in  a  moment.  A  black 
patch  covers  the  blind  eye,  held  in  its  place  by  a  band  of  thin 
elastic  that  cuts  his  brow  diagonally,  and  at  nearer  quarters, 
as  he  comes  under  the  direct  light  of  the  lantern,  it  is  plain 
that  he  has  been  drinking.  His  face,  indeed,  bears  deeper 
traces  of  the  liquor  disease  than  it  did ;  there  are  venous 
threads  of  purple  in  his  blunted  nose,  and  fleshy  pouches 
droop  beneath  each  eye.  As  he  draws  up  to  the  spring  cart 
the  farmer  hails  him  more  familiarly,  with  suitable  expletives 
of  surprise.  "  Why  man,  it's  going  in  two  years  since  I 
clapped  eyes  on  you.  I  thought  you'd  turned  to  grass  and 
daisies.  What  brings  you  to  this  part  of  the  country  in 
March?  It's  a  rum  time  to  be  moving." 

"  That's  my  business,"  retorts  the  blind-eyed  man. 

"  Why,  so  it  is,"  Pridgeon  agrees  with  cheerful  alacrity. 
"  And  I'm  not  jealous  to  rob  you  of  it."  He  replaces  the 
stable  lantern  over  the  dash-board,  crying  a  threatening 
"  Whoa ! "  to  the  horse,  whose  frettings  keep  the  cart  in 
perpetual  ferment  on  its  wheels,  for  the  blind-eyed  man 
suddenly  throws  up  an  elbow  before  his  face  with  an  oath, 
and  says,  "  Have  you  looked  plenty  ?  Do  you  want  to  spoil 
what  bit  of  sight  I've  got?" 

Pridgeon  answers,  "  Step  up  into  cart  with  you,  man,  for  I 
can't  hold  the  horse  in  much  longer."  In  parenthesis  he 
bellows  out  a  blood-curdling  "  Whoa  "  at  the  pickaxe  head  in 
great  capitals,  and  next  moment,  with  the  blind-eyed  man 
beside  him,  lets  the  three-year-old  go.  It  speeds  like  a  yard 
from  a  cross-bow,  and  Julian  Alston  tumbles  back  into  the 
vacant  place  with  a  lurch  that  threatens  to  unseat  him. 
Pridgeon,  seemingly  the  most  careless  of  drivers,  takes  a 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  305 

sideway  seat  as  soon  as  he  has  a  companion  to  talk  to,  and 
gives  but  the  briefest  glances  to  the  wind-swept  darkness 
ahead  of  them,  occasionally,  through  wantonness  rather  than 
necessity,  slashing  the  reins  to  impart  activity  to  their  pound- 
ing steed,  as  though  any  were  needed.  There  is  no  light  in 
the  cart,  but  from  the  halo  over  the  dash-board  and  through 
the  nail-hole  punched  in  the  tin  back  of  the  lantern,  a  certain 
irradiation  reaches  Julian  Alston's  face,  and  Pridgeon  is  not 
too  considerate  to  peer  at  it  in  the  gloom.  He  cannot  over- 
come his  feelings  of  surprise  to  find  the  blind-eyed  man  in 
this  locality. 

"  Why !  What !  You  weren't  coming  to  seek  me  ?  "  he 
asks,  in  a  sudden  outcrop  of  astonishment. 

Alston  cries,  "  You  ?  No !  Thank  God  I've  no  need  to 
muck  out  pigs  any  longer,  now."  Pridgeon  laughs  —  a 
laugh  that,  did  he  but  know  it,  blows  up  the  smoldering 
ashes  of  the  strange  passion  beside  him.  Even  the  small 
gratitude  for  the  present  favor  of  a  ride  upon  this  ink-black 
road  does  not  subdue  Alston's  wrath  at  the  remembrance  of 
those  summer  days  when,  fuming  like  the  dung  he  dealt  with, 
he  did  the  farmer's  bidding.  "  Why,  it's  a  messy  job,  and 
all,"  the  farmer  acknowledges.  "  I'm  glad  you've  got  a  bet- 
ter. What's  your  trade  now,  then  ?  "  he  asks  with  his  fatal 
proclivity  for  questions.  Alston  exclaims,  "  There  you  go !  " 
Pridgeon  retorts,  "  Why,  damn  it  man,  if  I  didn't  ask  for 
myself  you'd  tell  me  naught.  What's  got  the  lass  and  all  ? " 

Alston  makes  a  noise  in  his  throat  that  may  be  a  cough  of 
exasperation,  or  an  oath  suppressed.  Pridgeon,  probing  to 
the  blind-eyed  man's  face  in  the  gloom,  strikes  a  sudden 
surmise.  "What!"  says  he,  "has  the  wench  jilted  you?" 
Alston  retorts,  "  To  hell  with  her  and  you  and  your  ques- 
tions." "  Come,  there's  no  hurry,"  says  the  farmer.  "  We 
shall  all  get  there  in  good  time.  When  did  she  leave  you  ?  " 
Alston  draws  in  his  breath  with  a  curious  hissing  sound,  but 


306  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

yields  no  audible  reply.  Pridgeon,  seeming  to  take  answer 
from  his  silence,  says,  "  She  was  a  grand  lass.  I  could  never 
reckon  her  up  for  taking  on  wi'  syke  a  chap  as  you.  But 
it's  a  fool  that  trusts  a  woman  ower  long;  there  isn't  a  lass 
in  petticoats  that  knows  what  constancy  means.  What's 
gotten  her  now  ?  Do  you  know  ?  " 

Alston,  who  had  been  expectorating  morosely  over  the  cart 
side,  as  though  the  farmer's  words  brought  up  a  fluid  poison 
into  his  mouth,  suddenly  burst  out  with  a  cry  of  passion, 
and  smote  the  cushion  between  them.  "  Where  is  she  ? " 
he  repeated.  "  By  thunder,  I  don't  know  where  she  is  now 
-  whether  she's  in  this  world  or  the  next.  She's  got  my 
mark  on  her,  wherever  she  is." 

"  What !  "  exclaimed  the  farmer.  "  You  didn't  strike  her, 
man?" 

"  Didn't  I  ?  "  cried  Alston,  with  a  fierceness  that  marked 
too  clearly  the  intensity  of  the  act  in  question.  "  I  tell  you 
she  won't  forget  this  arm  in  a  hurry."  He  held  it  out- 
stretched, with  fist  clenched,  across  the  farmer's  chest ;  it  had 
the  double  effect  of  testimony  and  intimidation  —  as  though 
he  were  daring  the  world  to  deny  the  deed  or  dispute  the 
righteousness  of  it.  Pridgeon,  untouched  by  the  latter  sense 
of  the  gesture,  said  — 

"  Nay,  man.  You  never  laid  hands  on  a  lass  like  yon, 
surely.  Damn  it,  there's  better  uses  for  women  than  that." 

"  Who  gave  me  this  eye  ? "  Alston  shouted  through  the 
wind  and  clamor  of  their  progress.  "  A  woman.  By  thun- 
der, and  I've  paid  a  woman  back  for  it.  They're  all  alike. 
One's  as  bad  as  another.  Now  I'm  quits  and  done  with 
them.  No  more  women  for  me.  Let's  be  free  of  this 
blighted  country." 

"  What !  "  says  Pridgeon.  "  Do  you  mean  to  say  you've 
been  getting  into  trouble?  You've  not  damaged  the  lass  at 
all  ?  "  he  said,  putting  his  face  closer.  He  is  prepared  to 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  307 

shift  his  position  for  the  better  hearing  of  the  blind-eyed 
man's  confidences,  but  Alston  confides  nothing  in  cold  blood. 
His  secrets  are  like  sparks  belched  upward,  blown  by  forced 
draught  from  his  forge  fire.  As  soon  as  the  farmer  lends  a 
listening  ear  the  vagrant's  cinders  cool  to  a  dull  silence. 

But  by  dint  of  industrious  rakings  and  bellowings  as  they 
drive,  the  farmer  begins  to  see  glimpses  of  fugitiveness  in 
his  companion's  outlook  —  though  how  such  flight  should 
bring  him  to  this  part  of  the  globe  he  cannot  divine.  Alston 
makes  mention  of  America.  The  farmer,  quick  to  draw 
conclusions,  says,  "  So  you're  bound  for  America,  man  ?  " 
Whereat  his  companion  says  obliquely,  "  Any  country's  bet- 
ter than  this."  Pridgeon  asks  bluntly  as  to  means.  "  It'll 
cost  you  something,"  says  he.  "  Is  your  purse  fat  enough  ?  " 
Alston  affirms  he  can  manage  that.  He  has  been  to  America 
in  his  palmier  days,  it  seems,  and  the  farmer  is  disposed  to 
seek  information  about  this  middle-heaven  of  the  desperate. 
"  For,"  says  he,  "  I  don't  know  but  what  I  mayn't  be  follow- 
ing you  there  before  long.  England's  a  dowly  spot,  God 
knows,  and  farming's  about  dead  i'  this  part.  As  soon  as 
my  mother  dies  —  and  she  can't  hope  to  live  so  much  longer 
now  —  there'll  be  nothing  to  keep  me.  They  tell  me  there 
are  some  grand  lasses  over  there,  man.  Is  it  right?" 

Thus  in  their  respective  fashions  they  draw  together  con- 
versationally during  the  drive.  After  a  while  the  blind-eyed 
man  touches  on  the  Sunfleet  doctor  in  a  curt  sentence  of  in- 
quiry. Pridgeon  says,  "  Why,  man,  what  do  you  know 
about  him  ?  "  and  then  recalls  the  circumstances  of  the  Doc- 
tor's daily  visits  to  his  farm,  adding,  "  Aye,  to  be  sure.  He 
let  yon  bairn  of  yours  into  the  world.  I'd  forgotten." 
They  discuss  the  Doctor,  or  rather  Pridgeon  holds  forth  on 
him.  "  Bless  you,"  he  tells  Alston,  "  I  scarcely  see  him  once 
in  a  blue  moon.  He's  not  the  sort  of  man  anybody  can 
make  much  of  a  friend  of.  Not  that  I'm  saying  anything 


308  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

against  him,  but  he  needn't  be  so  down  on  the  drink.  The 
stuff's  right  enough  when  it's  not  abused.  Yon  lass  of  his 
is  going  to  be  married.  Did  you  ever  see  her?" 

Alston  rasps  his  throat. 

"  Who's  she  marrying  ?    Him  ?  " 

"  Nay,"  Pridgeon  lashes  the  reins.  "  I  think  she'd  have 
done  better  with  him  than  chap  she's  having.  He's  a  par- 
son. Nothing  much  in  our  line,  man.  You  and  I  can  get 
wed  without  syke  fellows.  All  the  same,  I  wouldn't  mind 
wearing  his  shoes  for  a  bit;  she's  a  fine  lass.  And  to  think 
I  can  remember  her  when  she  was  a  bit  of  a  thing  as  big  as 
your  watch-pocket,  sniveling  aback  of  a  handkerchief  in  yon 
Doctor's  room  first  night  she  came.  God  bless  it,  but  time 
makes  old  men  of  us  all.  I'm  steering  for  the  fifties." 

This  topic  of  the  Doctor  and  his  ward  is  plucked  at  with 
strange  insistence  by  the  blind-eyed  man.  Even  Pridgeon, 
following  the  careless  flow  of  his  own  tongue,  discerns  sud- 
denly with  what  keenness  the  course  of  its  current  is  being 
prompted. 

"  Damn  it,  man !  "  he  cries  at  length.  "  You  ask  a  deal  o' 
questions  about  Doctor  and  yon  lass."  And  all  at  once  the 
thought  comes  to  his  mind :  "  Is  it  him  you're  coming  to 
see?"  There  is  a  laugh  with  the  words,  a  breath  of  taunt 
that  blows  the  blind-eyed  man's  wrath  to  a  sudden  red 
heat. 

"  And  what  if  I  am  ?  "  cries  he. 

"  Why,"  Pridgeon  drives  awhile  in  silence,  peering  at  him 
incredulously,  "  I'm  thinking  he  won't  be  over  well  pleased 
to  see  you." 

The  blind-eyed  man  lets  fall  an  oath. 

"  Pleased  or  not  pleased,"  he  shouts  through  the  wind, 
"  he  won't  say  no  to  me." 

There  is  a  meaning  in  the  words;  they  wave  to  defiance 
like  a  banner.  The  farmer  believes  himself  on  the  brink  of 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  309 

some  rare  disclosure ;  his  brain  is  at  work ;  through  the  wafts 
of  alcohol  blown  out  at  him  from  his  companion's  hot 
mouth  he  scents  the  odor  of  mystery  dear  to  human  hearts. 

"  Why !  What !  "  he  begins  with  his  customary  formula, 
bending  his  face  close  to  Alston's  own,  and  coming  nearer 
over  the  cushion.  "  Is  there  anything  betwixt  you  ?  " 

But  the  tramp  has  cooled  suddenly  again;  his  indiscretion 
has  checked  his  anger.  His  next  curse  is  at  Pridgeon  for 
exciting  him  to  a  dangerous  outburst. 

"  Keep  your  questions  to  yourself."  His  degenerate  pride 
itches  to  slap  the  farmer  violently  in  the  face  with  the  procla- 
mation that  the  Doctor's  lass  is  his  daughter,  that  his  own 
blood  fertilizes  the  beauty  Pridgeon  thinks  so  much  about; 
but  he  knows  —  and  the  knowledge  goads  him  —  that  he 
would  be  laughed  at  for  his  pains,  and  that,  with  the  estab- 
lishment of  his  right  to  claim  paternity,  he  would  forfeit  that 
other  secondary  right  which  is  a  matter  of  greater  moment 
to  him  now. 

So  the  drive  is  continued.  The  wind  begins  to  veer 
noticeably  to  the  east,  and  its  action  upon  the  three-year-old 
is  more  potent  than  the  farmer's  reins;  he  can  sit  now  with 
slack  wrists.  Not  yet  have  they  encountered  the  squalls  of 
snow  that  are  to  characterize  the  later  evening,  but  the  wind 
that  faces  them  grows  icy  cold.  Here  and  there  along  their 
route  the  farmer  cries  an  inn-side  halt,  and  he  and  Alston 
line  themselves  with  liquid  fire  for  the  sustaining  of  their 
further  journey.  For  out-of-door  men  the  night  is  nothing. 
As  they  stand  drawn-up  by  lamp-lit  hostel  there  are  those 
who  speak  of  the  weather  as  "  wildish  for  driving,"  but  the 
adjective  bears  a  mere  conversational  value.  That  supreme 
hour  of  gale  is  not  yet. 

At  Peterwick  Pridgeon  finds  Medling  and  a  smoking  bar- 
ful  of  worthies  in  the  Fox  and  Hounds.  His  resolution  to 
reach  home  and  his  previous  thoughts  for  the  three-year-old 


310  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

falter.  He  says :  "  To  heaven  with  driving.  Let's  set  down 
and  warm  oneself  a  bit.  Come  in,  man !  " —  this  to  Alston, 
but  the  latter  takes  his  drink  at  the  door,  outside  the  area 
of  good-nights  and  recognitions,  and  will  not  be  cajoled, 
though  (truth  to  tell)  the  farmer  in  view  of  this  congenial 
company  does  not  try  his  hardest  persuasions.  The  blind- 
eyed  man  drains  the  last  glass,  hands  it  silently  to  the  wait- 
ing landlord,  wipes  his  mouth  morosely  with  the  back  of  a 
hand,  and  lurches  away  into  the  darkness  without  good- 
night. Pridgeon,  finding  him  gone,  throws  open  the  door  to 
shout  "  I  shall  overtake  you,  maybe,"  but  no  voice  answers 
him  out  of  the  darkness. 


XXXVII 

NOT  to  the  Doctor  alone,  during  these  recent  days,  has 
the  faculty  of  hard  thinking  pertained.  Behind  the 
small  white  brow  and  clear  blue  eyes  of  his  beloved  Jane,  a 
brain  has  been  busy.  This  precipitation  of  things  foreseen 
by  the  heart,  yet  held  by  the  mind  so  comfortably  remote, 
has  brought  perplexity  to  both.  Both  seek  to  realize,  un- 
known of  the  other,  what  the  step  involves. 

Woman's  heart  is,  to  man,  a  well  unfathomable.  Some 
say  it  is  a  deep  shaft,  sunk  down  through  the  emotions; 
echoing  to  every  voice  with  a  hundred  overtones  and 
reflected  distortions;  empty,  yet  bricked  round  with  artifice 
all  the  way  down  to  where  a  little  water  of  clear  truth  winks 
deceptively  in  the  darkness,  seeming  to  be  much  nearer  than 
it  is.  Others  describe  it  variously,  in  terms  of  praise  or 
despair;  all  haunt  it;  many  hopeful  pitchers  are  broken  at 
the  well  head.  Each  inquirer  assumes  that  woman  the  will- 
ful knows,  of  her  innate  wisdom,  what  the  heart  hides ; 
none  imagines  that  her  artifice  is  often  but  the  harmless 
expediency  of  ignorance  attempting  to  know  itself ;  that  her 
wiles  are  defensive  rather  than  initiatory ;  and  that  her  heart 
holds  as  deep  a  secret  from  her  own  gaze  as  that  they  try  to 
make  it  yield.  Jane,  retiring  to  her  own  little  blue-cushioned 
sanctuary  up-stairs  when  Berkeley  has  gone,  sets  to  work, 
ostensibly  on  the  table-center  in  silks  of  saffron  and  shaded 
yellows  that  has  been  occupying  her  external  attention  dur- 
ing the  past  week;  truthfully,  to  sift  her  thoughts  and  feel- 
ings, and  try  and  sort  these  muddled  silks  of  sentiment 
whose  very  disorder  has  frightened  her  from  the  task  before. 

3" 


312  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

She  is  horrified  to  hear  a  voice  within  her  asking  if  she  really 
loves  Berkeley  Hislop  so  well  as  she  had  imagined,  and  she 
is  scarcely  less  horrified  to  discover  that  the  question  is  not 
one  to  be  dismissed  by  a  Yes  or  No. 

Of  love  indeed,  when  she  studies  their  relations  critically, 
she  finds  disappointingly  little.  Since  that  first  October 
afternoon  when  all  the  fibers  thrilled  responsive  to  Berkeley 
Hislop's  confession  —  a  confession  sweet  by  reason  that  it 
established  and  enthroned  the  woman  within  her,  and  con- 
secrated her  queenly  right  to  dominion  over  the  heart  of 
man  —  she  finds  that  the  love  between  them  has  been  in- 
appreciably relegated  to  the  cold  region  of  accepted  fact. 
It  has  been  incorporated  into  a  bond;  her  heart  has  been 
formally  conveyed.  She  and  Berkeley  Hislop  appear  to  be 
mere  subscribers  to  a  legal  instrument  of  love,  participating 
now  in  the  consequences  rather  than  the  quality.  Investi- 
gation shows,  too,  how  far  her  vanities  have  been  involved 
in  this  conveyance  of  affection,  and  on  the  threshold  of  the 
hymeneal  vestibule,  she  halts,  quieting  her  heart  with  a 
hand. 

Three  brief  months  from  now  and  all  is  to  be  changed 
with  her.  To  the  wind  with  her  name;  thenceforth  that 
part  of  her  will  be  shed  as  lightly  as  a  leaf.  Beneath  a  new 
name  —  once  lipped  in  eager  rehearsal ;  now  tried  dubiously, 
like  a  lock  for  her  imprisonment  —  she  will  face  a  fresh  life ; 
cast  the  old  home  in  favor  of  a  new ;  dwell  amid  strangers ; 
adopt  unfamiliar  modes  of  living;  mold  herself  dutifully  to 
her  life-lord's  will.  Does  she  love  him  dearly  enough  to 
make  the  change? 

She  wishes,  girl-like,  that  Bertha  were  here.  Bertha's 
absence  has  involved  a  subtle  difference  in  her  thoughts ;  a 
chief  thread  has  been  withdrawn.  For  doubts,  submitted  to 
Bertha,  were  made  whole ;  the  feelings  of  affection  were 
caressingly  stimulated;  the  sense  of  devotion  to  Berkeley 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  313 

piously  sustained  within  her.  Since  Bertha's  absence,  she 
had  been  conscious  of  a  slippage  in  sentiment ;  she  perceives 
a  tendency  to  relapse  upon  her  earliest  doubts;  to  question 
if  Berkeley  is  really  so  intellectual-looking,  after  all;  to  be 
in  two  minds  concerning  his  gravity ;  to  be  dubious  of  those 
crooked  matters  so  frequently  kissed  straight  by  Bertha's 
supplicating  lips.  She  begins  to  doubt  her  piety;  to  debate 
whether  she  has  a  true  vocation  to  act  the  vicaress.  The 
pride  of  it  still  possesses  her;  her  neck  arches  involuntarily 
as  she  sweeps  in  thought  up  the  aisle  of  their  Joint  Church, 
and  seeks  the  pew  before  the  eyes  of  a  hushed,  observant 
congregation.  But  can  this  vanity  be  really  love?  Has  she 
not  been  led  astray  from  the  true  pathway  of  her  heart  by 
thoughts  of  coveted  grandeur?  Is  she  not  contemplating  to 
pledge  her  happiness  for  mere  mortal  pride? 

She  is  dismayed  to  find  how  much  of  the  stranger  occupies 
this  man  she  has  consented  to  marry.  Thoughts  of  her  fu- 
ture life,  of  the  proud  home  that  is  to  be  hers,  have  absorbed 
and  beguiled  her  fancy  at  times  almost  to  extinction  of  this 
other  marital  element.  It  comes  upon  her  now  with  some- 
thing of  a  shock  that  the  grave  being,  with  whom  she  makes 
no  real  advance  in  intimacy,  is  gateway,  corner-stone,  and 
pediment  of  all  her  hopes.  She  takes  covert  stock  of  his 
countenance  from  time  to  time,  and  finds  it  almost  what  it 
was  in  the  earliest  days  of  all,  when  she  had  a  maiden  fear  of 
it.  His  voice  subdues  her.  Beneath  her  somewhat  chill 
external  a  very  hot  and  human  little  heart  is  burning.  She 
has  tried  to  woo  Berkeley  with  warm  blood  to  put  forth  the 
spring  buds  and  blossoms  of  the  passion.  Often  her  lips 
have  been  offered  unobtrusively  to  his  own,  the  little  hand 
has  lingered  to  be  plucked  and  fondled ;  but  in  such  ars 
amoris  he  has  no  skill.  He  takes  her  hand  in  his  and  shakes 
it  gravely,  decorously;  the  kiss  he  lays  upon  her  cheek 
(never  her  lips)  is  a  flat  and  tasteless  thing  like  a  poached 


314  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

egg  grown  cold  on  the  plate  through  long  neglect ;  affording 
the  heart  a  certain  nourishment,  indeed,  but  checking  the 
appetite  rather  than  encouraging  it.  One  kiss  of  the  kind 
is  quite  sufficient;  Jane  never  asks  for  more;  she  folds  her 
hands  after  it,  and  says  an  inward  grace.  Since  the  day 
that  he  kissed  her  for  the  first  time  in  the  Sunfleet  vestry, 
she  finds  that  the  quality  of  his  kissing  has  declined.  She 
has  a  dread  surmise  that  he  takes  no  pleasure  in  it  —  could 
subsist  quite  comfortably  on  mere  handshakes  alone.  Love 
decorative  seems  far  beneath  him;  he,  loftily  above.  His 
discourse  makes  no  reference  to  it.  Half  a  day  at  least,  after 
each  absence,  is  needed  to  thaw  him  to  the  degree  of  fa- 
miliarity on  which  they  parted;  he  would  be  prepared  to  sit 
at  half  a  room's  length  away  from  Jane,  toying  with  the 
gold  crucifix  on  his  watch-chain,  as  though  he  were  giving 
her  moments  that  might  be  devoted  to  deeper  purpose,  and 
sending  his  resonant  deep  voice  in  great  cable-lengths  across 
to  her.  She  finds  herself  at  times  with  both  hands  in  her 
lap,  serving  out  submissive  "  Yes,  Berkeleys,"  and  "  No, 
Berkeleys,"  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  Berkeleys,"  almost  in  ac- 
cents of  timidity.  Imperceptibly  she  has  acquired  the  family 
attitude  of  meekness  and  respect  for  this  grave  verbi  dei 
minister;  offers  her  mind  as  a  footstool  to  his,  that  he  may 
plant  the  sole  of  his  learning  on  it.  Now  and  again  he  tries 
with  an  obvious  effort  to  descend  to  her  level  and  indulge 
her  to  a  little  lighter  converse;  but  he  cuts  it  wedge-shape, 
as  sparing  matrons  carve  cake  for  juvenile  consumption,  and 
one  piece  formally  proffered  must  suffice.  He  has  no  range 
in  the  lighter  topics ;  swims  clumsily  in  them,  with  manifest 
discomfort  to  himself;  soon  he  lapses  into  his  chancellary 
manner,  assumes  the  liturgical  voice,  and  Jane  is  of  the 
congregation  once  more,  breathing  her  meek  Amens  and 
Spare  us,  Good  Lords. 

At  first  this  solemn  booming  of  his  voice  had  stirred  her; 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  315 

her  vain  little  ears  throbbed  crimson  to  their  lobes  to  be  the 
solitary  favored  receptacles  of  tones  on  which  whole  listen- 
ing churchfuls  hung.  In  his  presence  she  felt  the  beauty  of 
being  good;  his  piety  protected  her;  with  such  a  husband 
she  might  be  sure  of  heaven.  But  that  was  in  the  beginning. 
Since  then  her  heart  had  pined  for  a  less  cloistral  love ;  she 
had  even  found  her  mind  wandering  during  his  recital  of 
parochial  affairs  to  some  other  topic,  and  had  come  back 
with  a  guilty  jerk  to  a  sense  of  its  truancy.  In  theory  this 
priestly-affianced  was  all  the  heart  could  wish;  in  practice 
he  was  a  disappointment.  She  was  conscious  of  having  tried 
very  hard  to  talk  herself  into  the  love  of  him;  with  Bertha 
and  with  Numphy  both,  she  had  done  her  best  to  rear  this 
being  upon  a  pedestal  for  her  own  heart  to  kneel  before  and 
worship ;  had  essayed  to  perceive  in  him  those  very  qualities 
whose  need  she  had  most  keenly  noted.  Each  time  a  smile 
was  wrung  from  him,  a  vindicating  pride  rose  up  within  her, 
rejoicing,  to  record  the  fact  and  claim  for  him  a  character  of 
friendly  cheerfulness  from  the  exception.  But  now,  with  this 
uncalculated  precipitation  of  affairs,  her  synthetic  idealism 
reached  a  sudden  end;  in  place  of  it  she  found  a  keenly 
analytic  heart,  probing  into  half-suspected  truths  that  made 
it  tremble.  Did  she  love  Berkeley  Hislop  after  all? 

And  then  she  thinks  of  Numphy,  battling  now  against  the 
blasts  that  take  the  big  house  as  in  encircling  arms  and  hug 
it  threateningly;  or  clap  its  roof  with  flat  hands  of  thunder, 
blowing  the  smoke  out  of  Jane's  small  fire  abruptly  into  the 
room,  and  sucking  it  surprisingly  back  again  all  at  once,  so 
that  but  a  wisp  of  it  drifts  beyond  the  mantel.  All  these 
nightly  sessions  will  be  converted  into  mere  sighs  of  remem- 
brance; here  in  Sunfleet  he  will  be  left  to  follow  his  dreary 
life  alone.  Thoughts  of  a  certain  sadness  fill  her.  She 
sheds  a  few  tears,  recalling  his  goodness  to  her,  and  the 
many  happy  hours  spent  together.  If  only  Berkeley  had  his 


316  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

smile.  .  .  .  His  ready  word.  .  .  .  His  manly  ten- 
derness. .  .  . 

But  that  is  silly  and  impossible.  She  wipes  her  eyes  and 
puts  the  filmy  handkerchief  aside.  And  yet,  at  this  very 
moment,  of  the  two  men  absent  it  is  Numphy  that  she 
misses  most.  From  her  lonely  want  of  him  she  interprets 
his  lonely  want  of  her.  It  is  a  thought  her  heart  has  har- 
bored on  many  an  occasion.  What  will  become  of  Numphy 
when  she  leaves  him?  Faint  images  of  duty  hover  round 
the  question.  Ought  she  to  desert  him?  A  sense  of  help- 
lessness pervades  her;  the  need  of  a  comforter,  of  one  to 
whose  ear  her  lips  may  be  laid,  and  from  whose  mouth  she 
may  coax  breath  of  counsel.  Suppose  .  .  .  Suppose. 
It  is  a  desperate  idea,  she  is  aware;  but  suppose  she  were 
to  tell  Berkeley  Hislop  that  she  can  never  be  anything  more 
than  a  sister  to  him?  What  should  be  the  consequences? 

She  fears  to  picture  it.  What  would  Berkeley  say? 
What  Bertha,  and  Uncle  Horace?  Whatever  Numphy? 
Could  her  pride  sustain  all  their  looks  and  wonder  and  inter- 
rogation; all  their  searching  after  reasons;  all  their  accusa- 
tions of  girlish  fickleness  and  inconstancy?  She  fears  not. 
She  foresees  the  inevitable  inquisition  of  her  recusant  heart ; 
the  varied  ordeals  to  which  it  must  be  subjected;  the  at- 
tempts to  save  her  from  apostasy ;  consternation  hardening  in 
the  lips  to  grave  resentment  and  rebuke;  disgrace  closing 
fast  around  her;  her  ultimate  martyrdom  for  a  cause  her 
judges  cannot  comprehend;  truth  to  her,  rank  heresy  to 
them. 

No,  no.  She  has  not  courage.  She  must  try  and  care 
for  him;  must  recommence  her  idealizing;  shut  down  the 
analytic  processes.  Affections  are  plastic;  love  is  a  flexible 
quality  to  be  shaped  by  the  will.  And  besides  .  .  . 
love  —  in  the  sense  she  seeks  to  perceive  it  —  is  a  figment  of 
the  romanticists.  She  is  not  a  heroine  going  large-bosomed 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  317 

and  deep-breathing  into  an  epic,  but  plain  Jane  Alston  of 
Sunfleet,  about  to  assume  the  prosaic  duties  of  an  English 
wife. 

Of  course.  She  has  been  ridiculous.  It  is  absurd.  What 
can  she  have  been  thinking  about? 

And  all  for  no  reason  she  suddenly  lays  down  the  fancy- 
work  on  her  knees  and  throws  back  her  head  silently  with 
her  hands  over  it  while  the  tears  well  through  her  fingers. 

Life  is  full  of  disappointments,  dismays,  and  disillusion- 
ings. 


XXXVIII 

AT  ten  o'clock  comes  Hester  to  Miss  Jane's  room  with 
Miss  Jane's  customary  tray  of  dry  biscuits  and  hot 
milk,  to  say :  "  Lord,  miss !  Don't  you  get  stalled  o'  sitting 
with  yourself?  "  and  "  Hasn't  it  been  a  night!  There's  snow 
blown  under  the  kitchen  door,  and  Anne  says  she's  never 
felt  her  feet  so  cold  all  winter."  Miss  Jane  smiles  indul- 
gence at  the  one,  and  shakes  her  head  assentively  at  the  sec- 
ond. "  I  am  afraid  the  Doctor  .  .  ."  she  begins,  and, 
breaks  off  suddenly  with  a  listening  attitude  to  ask :  "  Is  that 
the  bell  ?  "  Both  lend  ears.  Hester  thinks  her  mistress  is 
mistaken,  but  next  moment  Anne's  footsteps  are  audible, 
crossing  the  hall,  and  they  hear  the  sound  of  the  latch  with- 
drawn. "  Who  can  it  be,  I  wonder  ? "  Jane  speculates. 
"  Hush,  Hester.  I  hope  it  is  not  for  the  Doctor  again." 
Almost  before  the  words  are  out  of  her  mouth,  the  front 
door  slams  with  the  force  of  a  cannon,  and  a  bolt  is  rattled 
home.  The  vehemence  of  the  act  scares  both  these  listening 
faces.  Hester's  mouth  drops  in  apprehension,  Jane  rises  in 
graceful  perturbation  to  her  feet.  "  Whatever  is  the  mat- 
ter! Anne  can  never  have.  .  .  .  Let  me  pass,  Hester." 
She  crosses  the  landing  with  authoritative  footsteps,  and 
descends  the  staircase  to  the  first  bend,  Hester  close  upon 
her  skirts.  At  the  same  moment  Anne  is  beneath  the  hall 
lamp;  an  indignant  Anne  with  a  red  patch  on  either  cheek, 
casting  back  a  look  of  injury  towards  the  door,  as  though  in 
that  direction  lay  the  source  of  some  deeply-resented  affront. 
And  suddenly,  while  these  respective  attitudes  are  preserved, 
the  hall  re-echoes  to  the  furious  assault  of  a  man's  fists  upon 

318 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  319 

the  door-panels,  and  a  man's  voice  cries  out  with  the  suffoca- 
tion of  rage  beyond.  Hester  exclaims :  "  Oh,  miss !  Hark 
at  him!  What  a  passion."  Jane's  head  is  very  high;  her 
dignity  is  touched. 

"Anne.     Who  is  it?    What  has  happened?" 

Anne,  breathing  so  vehemently  that  she  has  to  rebuke  her 
bosom's  violence  with  a  hand,  said :  "  I'll  larn  him  to  behave 
hisself.  I'll  teach  him  to  be  civil.  My  word,  I  will  and  all. 
Aye !  you  may  knock !  "  she  cried,  and  shook  her  fist  at  the 
door.  Jane  repeated  her  question. 

"  I  lets  nobody  call  me  a  liar,"  the  seething  woman 
responded,  "  nor  never  did.  Not  even  when  my  husband  was 
living.  If  I  was  a  man  I'd  gan  oot  quick  and  larn  him  his 
manners.  A  bonny  idea  for  a  fellow  to  shove  his  foot  i'  door 
again  a  respectable  woman.  What's  good  o'  growing  old  if 
you  get  no  respect  for  it?  Nobbut  I'd  had  my  boots  on  1 
mud  a  gied  him  summut  to  remember  me  by  —  but  there's 
no  use  i'  syke  slippers  as  these." 

"  But  Anne.  .  .  ."  Jane  assumed  her  voice  of  author- 
ity. "  I  insist.  Who  is  it  ?  What  has  happened  ?  " 

"Who  is  it?"  retorted  the  injured  woman.  "Why,  it's 
yon  blind-eyed  chap  that  cam'  wi'  gypsy  lass  to  Sunfleet  a 
couple  o'  year  sin'.  Rings  bell  as  if  it  was  for  syke  as  him 
to  handle,  and  asks  for  Doctor  as  bold  as  brass.  Aye,  and 
when  I  say  Doctor's  not  at  yam  he  calls  me  a  liar,  wi  another 
name  tiv  it,  and  tries  to  set  his  foot  i'  door.  As  drunk  as  a 
pig  bucket." 

"  But  Anne.  He  may  need  the  Doctor  seriously.  Are 
you  quite  sure  he  is  really  drunk  ?  " 

"  If  noses  is  aught  to  gan  by,  I  am,"  the  housekeeper  re- 
plied. "  As  soon  as  door  opened  I  could  smell  him  o'  drink 
strong  enough  to  put  lamp  oot." 

Her  words  were  interrupted  by  the  battery  of  fists  once 
more.  Hester  cried,  "  Oh,  miss !  Come  your  ways  back. 


320  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

Don't  gan  gain-hand  yon  door.  What  if  he  was  to  peep 
thruff  keyhole.  I'm  all  of  a  tremmle." 

Jane  put  a  dubious  forefinger  to  her  lip  and  looked  dis- 
quietly  towards  the  door.  The  summons  was  certainly 
peremptory,  but  stronger  force  than  alcohol  might  be  at 
work  to  make  it  so.  She  felt  also  that  she  ought  to  rise, 
superior  over  alarm,  to  some  height  of  mistress-ship  before 
these  under-women.  Not  that  she  had  any  wish  to  face  that 
fierce  identity  behind  the  door. 

"  Perhaps,"  she  said,  "  it  is  something  very  urgent  and 
dreadful,  Anne.  You  ought  to  inquire." 

"  Not  me,"  said  the  housekeeper  in  a  mutinous  voice.  "  I 
don't  open  yon  door  again  for  nobody.  Mebbe  I  might  not 
be  so  quick  i'  shuttin'  her  a  second  time." 

"  I  am  not  frightened,"  Jane  declared,  raising  her  small 
proud  head.  "  I  will  see  the  man  myself." 

She  descended  a  step,  but  Hester,  wrought  to  a  panic  by 
the  sight  of  the  move,  clasped  .her  hysterically  by  the  arm  — 
her  face  rendered  terrible  by  the  sense  of  horror  for  this 
audacity.  "  Oh,  miss !  Don't  gan  no  nearer.  Grip  tight 
hold  o'  bannisters,  like  me,  and  get  ready  to  run  if  yon  door 
bursts  open."  She  showed  tokens  of  tears.  "  There's 
naught  no  worse  nor  a  drunken  man." 

"  Hester !  "  Jane  turned  upon  her  imperiously,  withal  not 
sorry  to  be  restrained.  "  You  are  forgetting  yourself.  Let 
go  my  arm." 

Hester,  rendered  desperate  by  reproof  and  terrors,  released 
it,  crying :  "  Not  while  you  promise  me  faithful  to  stop 
where  y'  are.  What  if  yon  man  was  to  get  i'  house.  Oh, 
miss!  There  was  a  woman  an'  bairn  murdered  nobbut  last 
week  i'  Hunmouth  paper,  wi'  their  fortygrafts.  I  don't 
know  why,  but  I've  semt  low  spirited  all  day.  I  couldn't 
sup  aboon  half  my  second  cup  o'  tea." 

The  thought  of  the  house's  invasion  by  this  drunken  vis- 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  321 

itor,  fermented  by  Hester's  obvious  alarm,  played  somewhat 
pregnantly  on  Jane's  fancy.  She  said,  "  Nonsense,  Hester !  " 
in  a  sharp  voice  of  reproof,  but  she  asked,  "  Are  you  quite 
sure  the  bolt  is  fastened,  Anne?" 

"  Not,"  she  added,  "  that  anybody  would  dare  to  walk  into 
the  Doctor's  house  without  permission." 

"  They'd  walk  i'  any  house,"  Anne  commented,  "  when 
the  drink  moves  'em.  If  I  hadn't  slammed  yon  door  quick, 
he'd  a  been  inside  noo." 

"  All  is  quiet,"  Jane  remarked,  after  a  listening  pause. 
"  Has  the  man  gone  ?  "  They  lent  their  three  profiles  to  the 
door,  and  drew,  after  awhile,  a  sense  of  consolation  from  the 
silence. 

"  Perhaps  you  were  too  hasty,  Anne,"  Jane  reflected.  "  I 
do  not  feel  altogether  comfortable.  It  seems  dreadful  to 
shut  the  Doctor's  door  in  anybody's  face.  The  poor  man 
must  have  had  a  reason  for  calling." 

"  You'd  a'  shut  door  as  quick  as  me,"  Anne  said,  "  yance 
you'd  seed  his  face." 

Their  brief  sense  of  security,  growing  out  of  silence  with 
the  seconds,  received  a  rude  abuse ;  the  assault  upon  the  door 
panels  was  renewed.  Threats,  almost  indistinguishably 
hoarse,  added  to  the  sinister  effect  of  this  siege.  What  the 
threats  were,  or  precisely  against  whom  leveled,  in  their  per- 
turbation they  could  not  make  out;  moreover,  the  man's  fists 
were  foes  to  his  voice.  They  caught  the  words :  "  Worse  for 
you.  .  .  ."  "  Wait  all  night  .  .  ."  and  other  words 
less  possible  of  reproduction,  which  Jane,  as  a  prospective 
vicaress,  tried  vainly  to  ignore,  but  which  the  impulsive  Hes- 
ter forced  upon  her  notice  with  a  horrified  "  Oh,  miss !  Did 
you  hear  yon  ?  What  a  word  to  say !  "  The  use  of  her  own 
name,  "  Jane  Alston "  however,  twice  unmistakably  raised 
by  that  dread  throat  beyond  the  door,  lent  a  new  complexion 
of  terror  to  the  assault.  Jane's  inclination  to  pity  turned 


322  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

steeply  aside  to  disgust  and  fear;  blind  menace,  much  more 
than  supplication  or  urgency  began  to  show  in  this  battery 
upon  their  defenses.  The  tail  of  her  vanity  trodden  on,  she 
rose  swift  to  the  height  of  dignity  and  disdain. 

"  Come  away,  Anne.  Do  not  listen  to  him,  Hester.  It  is 
shocking.  Perhaps  he  will  go  if  we  leave  the  hall." 

The  intermittent  fusillade  ceased  with  a  sudden  usage  of 
the  man's  foot.  A  brief  pause  succeeded,  and  then  some- 
thing fragible  crashed  against  the  door  —  a  bottle,  Anne 
said  —  as  though  hurled  with  the  purpose  of  stimulating 
terror.  In  this  it  did  not  fail.  The  gratuitous  violence  of 
the  deed  made  the  listeners  tremble  for  the  motives  that 
urged  it,  and  the  further  consequences  that  might  ensue. 
Even  from  the  silence  following,  Hester's  fertile  apprehen- 
sions conjured  a  new  terror. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Jane !  What  if  yon  man  was  to  gan  round  by 
kitchen  door ! "  A  still  more  horrible  fear  assailed  her : 
"  Or  any  o'  them  lower  winders !  " 

The  fear  infected  all  three.  Jane  said,  "  How  can  you 
suggest  such  horrid  things,  Hester.  Do  you  really  wish  to 
frighten  people  ?  What  are  you  looking  at  ?  " 

"  Hark !  "  said  Hester.    "  What's  that  ? " 

"  Lord,  lass ! "  exclaimed  Anne,  suddenly  glancing  round 
her,  and  gathering  her  skirts.  "  What  a  start  you  gied  me, 
calling  oot  i'  that  road.  Ain't  ye  more  sense?  I  declare  I 
thought  door'd  burst  open.  Here!  let  me  come  up-stairs 
and  all.  You're  making  me  feel  queer." 

"  I  hear  somebody  trying  to  push  yon  breakfast-room 
winder  open,"  Hester  communicated  in  the  ghost  of  a  whis- 
per. She  had  the  eyes  of  a  voyante.  "  There !  Oh,  miss ! 
He's  jumped  i*  room.  He's  groping  his  way  past  yon 
writing  table  .  .  ." 

"  Hush ! "  Anne  threw  at  her  in  a  voice  reduced  to  its  last 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  323 

shred  of  authority.  "  Say  another  word  at  your  peril  —  un- 
less you  want  to  hear  me  scream.  That's  next  thing  I  shall 
do,  I  know.  What  wi'  them  cold  flags,  and  him,  and  you 
and  your  fond  talk,  my  teeth's  chattering.  Get  higher  up- 
stairs wi'  you  —  we  mud  as  lieve  be  i'  hall  as  where  we  are. 
Do  you  want  him  catching  hold  o'  my  leg?" 

Feminine  fears  are  quickly  bred  and  propagated.  Hester's 
terrors  infected  all  three.  Even  Jane,  trying  her  hardest  to 
be  brave,  felt  the  current  of  alarm  thrill  through  her.  After 
all,  they  were  but  lone  women  in  this  big  house.  The  beating 
at  the  door,  and  the  man's  hoarse  voice  had  been  both  pas- 
sionate and  threatening.  Their  assailant  was  drunk.  From 
these  three  premises  can  be  argued  an  infinite  train  of  dis- 
quieting conclusions.  Nevertheless,  Jane  tried  to  rise  to  her 
conception  of  the  heroic. 

"  He  cannot  be  in  the  room,"  she  said.  "  You  are  mis- 
taken, Hester.  Besides  .  .  .  Why  should  he  wish  to  do 
such  a  thing?  If  he  had  meant  to  rob,  he  would  not  have 
rung  the  bell."  She  paused  a  moment  for  her  supreme  effort, 
and  plunged  into  it  with  an  icy  voice.  "  I  will  go  down 
and  lock  all  the  doors  .  .  .  and  put  the  catches  in  the 
windows." 

For  a  moment  she  feared  they  would  be  base  enough  to 
let  her,  but  it  was  the  disturbing  audacity  of  the  proposal 
that  took  away  their  breath.  Next  moment  four  hands 
restrained  her.  Hester  cried :  "  Oh,  miss !  You  mustn't. 
I  dursn't  stop  along  with  her."  Anne  said :  "  Are  you  taking 
leave  of  your  senses?  Who  knows  what  mud  happen  if  yon 
chap  got  hold  o'  you  i'  dark." 

The  thought  was  sufficiently  appalling  to  send  all  a  stair 
higher,  where  Hester  of  a  sudden  liquified. 

"  Doctor  ought  never  tiv  a'  left  us  a  night  like  this,"  she 
sobbed. 


324  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

"  No  house  is  safe  wi'oot  a  man  in  it,"  Anne  commented. 
"  Syke  a  spot  as  this  needs  a  couple  by  rights.  There's  not 
evens  a  spare  hat  on  yon  stand." 

Hester,  with  swollen  eyes,  biting  in  fearsome  expectancy 
on  a  corner  of  her  apron,  exclaims  — 

"  Oh,  Miss  Jane !  Whatever  will  he  do  at  us  ?  I  don't 
think  I  could  run  noo,  if  it  was  ever  so.  Could  you  ?  " 

Gradually  the  sense  of  terror,  raised  dominatingly  above  all 
other  emotions  like  a  mountain  peak,  subsides  to  a  level  with 
more  reasonable  feelings.  Jane,  anxious  to  assert  and  estab- 
lish her  own  courage  before  the  opportunity  was  lost  to  her, 
would  be  no  longer  dissuaded  from  her  purpose,  or  restrained, 
but  divested  herself  of  those  clinging  hands  and  descended 
the  stairs,  entering  all  the  silent  darkened  rooms  in  turn; 
putting  the  catches  into  the  windows,  and  locking  the  room 
doors  on  her  emergence  on  the  hall  side.  Her  heart  beat 
desperately  as  she  did  so;  the  wish  for  Numphy  was  on  her 
lips  like  a  prayer  the  whole  while  —  never  for  Berkeley. 

With  the  turning  of  the  last  lock  they  breathed  security, 
but  their  emotions  still  bore  testimony  to  the  disturbing 
storm,  like  the  troubled  waters  of  the  sea.  Thoughts  of  bed 
brought  no  consolation  to  the  mind.  Hester  said :  "  I 
couldn't  bide  to  shut  my  eyes  noo.  And  oh,  Miss  Jane! 
I  dursn't  blow  candle  oot,  yance  I  got  i'  bedroom  for  aught 
you'd  gie  me."  They  repaired  to  Jane's  sanctuary  and  kept 
wishing,  with  the  moments,  for  the  Doctor's  return.  Time 
became  figurative  to  their  troubled  senses  as  a  vast  ocean, 
damming  by  its  immensity  this  feeble  piece  of  mechanism 
on  the  mantelpiece  that  tried  to  filter  it  drop  by  drop.  The 
measured  tick-tack  of  Jane's  tiny  clock  pricked  them  to 
impatience  like  needle  points.  And  as  the  seconds  brought 
no  sign  of  him,  the  Doctor's  absence  added  still  another 
element  to  their  anxiety.  From  the  selfish  need  of  him, 
Jane's  mind  moved  onward  to  less  tranquilizing  thoughts, 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  325 

involving  his  safety.  Length  by  length  she  measured  out 
the  road  in  mind;  ticked  off  its  miles  against  her  fingers; 
calculated  the  time  this  double  journey  should  have  taken. 
Surely,  no  accident  had  happened  to  him!  The  night  had 
been  stormy ;  the  wind  furious  at  times ;  he  had  had  to  drive 
through  the  flood  at  Kenham.  And  on  such  a  night  .  .  . 
who  knows?  Terrors  like  this  proved  an  antidote  for 
former  fears ;  after  awhile  of  this  sort  of  apprehension  they 
returned  to  thoughts  of  drunken  men  with  tolerable  equa- 
nimity. Sleep  took  toll  of  Hester;  the  girl's  head  swung, 
irreclaimable,  like  a  somnolent  bell.  Anne  blinked,  found 
inclination  to  yawn.  Close  on  midnight  they  re-debated  bed. 
Hester,  indeed,  tried  to  resurrect  her  qualms,  but  these  were 
now  but  children  aroused  in  the  night,  fearful,  but  easy  to 
pacify.  She  took  her  way  to  bed,  bearing  a  second  candle 
with  her  for  fear  of  waking  in  the  dark.  Anne  cried: 
"  What  nonsense  of  a  great  lass  like  you.  I  wonder  you 
aren't  ashamed  to  let  Miss  Jane  hear  you  talk  i'  syke  fashion. 
As  though  dark  would  hurt  anybody  that  behaved  theirsens." 
But  she  made  sure  her  own  match-box  was  full.  Jane,  the 
last  to  go,  bade  both  good-night,  and  hesitated  awhile. 
Which  was  the  bravest  thing  to  do ;  to  sit  up  or  to  go  to  bed  ? 
At  first,  with  a  firm  heroism,  she  said  she  chose  the  former; 
said  she  would  keep  watch  for  Numphy.  But  the  query 
came  quick  upon  her  resolution :  Was  she  electing  this  to 
save  her  from  the  fear  of  going  to  bed?  Numphy's  return 
was  uncertain ;  he  might  not  come  for  hours ;  might,  indeed, 
find  reason  to  protract  his  visit  till  the  daybreak.  And  she 
was  not  frightened  of  bed;  not  a  bit.  It  was  ridiculous  to 
suppose  it.  So,  more  for  the  purpose  of  proving  her  cour- 
age, and  led,  properly  speaking,  by  the  fear  of  cowardice,  she 
sought  her  room  at  last.  There,  she  lifted  the  valances 
and  peeped  cautiously  under  the  bed  before  saying  her 
prayers ;  coloring  the  latter  with  a  rare  warmth  and  sincerity. 


326  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

So  long  did  she  remain  on  her  knees,  that  several  times  she 
had  to  lift  her  head  and  peer  over  a  shoulder  to  reassure 
herself  she  was  alone  with  her  Creator,  but  at  last  she  rose. 
Prayer  had  beautified  her  lips,  and  lent  a  look  that  was  half 
sanctity,  half  noble  courage  to  her  blue  eyes.  Sanctity,  in- 
deed, was  partly  tearful,  though  courage  shone  like  a  sword. 
Peeping  out  of  the  window,  she  took  a  glimpse  of  the  dark- 
ness in  which  the  outer  world  was  wrapped.  The  gale  had 
died  away  as  rapidly  as  it  had  risen ;  the  wind  came  now  in 
tolerant  breaths,  without  any  of  the  fierce  organ-mixture 
music  of  three  hours  before.  The  thick  branches  of  the 
evergreen  oak  hid  from  her  window  the  cheery  Spraith 
light,  that  winked  its  rhythmic  beam  into  Numphy's  bed- 
room beyond.  All  was  black  without.  She  saw  a  star  or 
two,  uncurtained  by  the  clouds  and  as  quickly  occulted ;  and 
felt  the  coldness  of  the  night,  and  shivered.  "  Poor  Num- 

phy." 


XXXIX 

DAY  breaks  at  last,  to  a  hundred  stories  of  the  night's 
storm.  The  tide  has  been  the  highest  on  record  for 
fifteen  years;  half  Kenham  Beech  is  flooded.  John  Dennit, 
Adam  Medling,  and  Styring  of  the  Tithe  Farm  are  reported 
ruined  men.  Martin,  too,  has  thirty  acres  under  water;  the 
waves  go  rippling  over  land  that  will  offer  no  further  work 
to  plow  or  harrow  this  summer.  Tons  of  cliff  have  been 
washed  away  all  down  the  coast.  At  Fotham  High  Lands, 
Cobham's  straw  stack  was  blown  clean  out  of  the  stackgarth ; 
there  has  been  mortality  among  lambs,  injury  to  stock.  The 
lips  of  the  morning  are  full  of  a  night's  disasters  by  sea  and 
land.  And  the  doctor  has  not  come  home. 

From  hours  of  sleepless  tossing  on  her  bed,  Jane  subsided 
at  last  into  the  crowded  thoroughfare  of  dreams,  where  real- 
ity after  unreality  opposes  itself  to  a  perplexed  intelligence; 
dead  people  and  the  living  mix  in  strange  juxtaposition; 
external  sounds  lend  verisimilitude  to  nightmares ;  clocks  be- 
come funeral  bells;  the  hooting  of  steamers  provides  the 
voice  for  drunken  blind-eyed  men;  a  broody  hen,  strayed 
from  Medling's  pasture  to  the  precincts  of  the  doctor's  gar- 
den, is  converted  into  dream-stuff  of  most  poignant  agony. 
At  length  she  was  aroused  by  Hester,  bringing  the  customary 
tea,  keen  to  awaken  the  sleeper  and  resume  la^st  night's 
horrors  by  the  comforting  light  of  day.  But  the  statement 
that  the  Doctor  was  still  away  caused  the  girl's  mistress  to 
put  a  brief  term  to  the  conversation,  swallow  her  tea  hastily 
on  elbow,  and  seek  her  bath.  The  Doctor  had  spent  whole 
nights  away  before,  and  come  home  smiling  reassurance  in 

327 


328  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

the  sun ;  making  light  of  his  vigil  and  rallying  Jane  for  her 
alarms.  Something  in  Jane's  breast  this  morning,  however, 
refused  to  accept  these  consolations  plucked  from  precedent. 
She  experienced,  despite  herself,  a  sense  of  urgency,  a  haste 
trying  to  outstrip  time.  The  towel  would  not  dry  her  body ; 
the  buttons  refused  submission  to  her  fingers.  Once  or 
twice  her  heart  beat  with  such  abrupt  violence  that  she  had 
to  spread  her  hand  over  the  palpitating  area,  to  quell  the 
disturbance.  And  the  insurrection  quelled,  added  a  fresh 
note  to  her  innate  fears.  Why  had  her  heart  thus  outrun 
its  regulation?  What  subtle  cause,  unknown,  was  influenc- 
ing her  alarms?  How  came  it  that  she  began  to  conceive 
last  night's  episode  as  an  omen  whose  fruit  was  darkly  ripen- 
ing now;  a  presage  of  trouble  to  come  rather  than  the  ac- 
complishment of  it?  Many  resolutions  came  to  a  shape  in 
in  that  small  head  as  she  sped  the  service  of  her  toilet.  For 
once,  at  least,  vanity  had  no  place  in  the  ritual;  no  finger- 
tips traced  critically  the  texture  of  brow  or  cheek;  the 
strands  of  golden  brown  hair  were  ruthlessly  twisted  as  a 
farmer's  wife  dispatches  poultry,  trussed  and  pinned. 
Scorning  her  mirror  she  ran  down  the  staircase,  so  lightly 
that  not  a  board  creaked  —  though  they  were  tell-tale  stairs, 
each  one  of  them ;  cracking  like  knee-joints  to  Anne's  labor- 
ious tread.  She  passed  straight  through  the  brass-studded 
baize  door  and  made  towards  the  kitchen,  saying  a  prefatory 
"  Anne ! "  Almost  at  once,  with  a  scuffle  of  skirts,  the 
housekeeper  was  out  upon  her,  blocking  the  stone-flagged 
passage. 

"  Aye ! "  she  responded ;  and  then  a  strange  abruptness 
characterized  the  voice.  "  Gan  back  inti  room.  Fse  com- 
ing." Her  skirts  advanced;  mechanically  Jane  receded.  It 
was  not  until  they  stood  beyond  the  green-baize  door  once 
more,  in  the  spacious  hall,  that  she  thought  to  test  the 
strangeness  of  her  repulse  by  a  reference  to  Anne's  face. 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  329 

On  inspection,  it  struck  her  as  curiously  gray ;  sewn  all  over 
with  innumerable  small  lines  like  the  minute  hairs  that  show 
themselves  to  close  view  on  a  plaster  wall.  And  the  lips 
appeared  to  be  compressed,  too,  with  all  the  signs  of  anger 
or  high  reproof.  For  one  moment,  and  for  some  inexpli- 
cable reason,  Jane  fancied  herself  the  object  of  the  house- 
keeper's displeasure. 

"  Anne  ? "  she  said,  and  an  impulse,  detached  from  all 
motive,  led  her  to  ask,  "What  are  you  doing?  Where  is 
Hester?"  The  lips  parted  with  the  semblance  of  an  anger 
that  resents  being  coerced  into  speech.  "  T  kitchen,"  said 
the  housekeeper.  The  strange  economy  of  words,  after  a 
night  of  terrors  so  intimately  shared  as  the  last,  struck 
forcibly  on  Jane's  attention.  She  saw  that  the  lips  beneath 
their  tight  compression  were  working;  that  the  bosom  rose 
and  fell.  And  she  had  mistaken  this  attitude  for  anger.  A 
faintness  seemed  coming  to  her  from  afar;  when  next  she 
spoke  her  voice  had  stripped  half  its  volume. 

"  What  it  is  ?  .  .  .  Why  do  you  ...  do  you 
look  like  that,  Anne  ?  "  There  was  a  strange  dryness  about 
her  mouth.  "  Speak."  Involuntarily  she  had  put  both  her 
hands  up  towards  her  ears,  as  though  to  hold  these  chan- 
nels of  intelligence  defended  from  anything  ill ;  to  close  them 
against  bad  tidings,  at  a  word.  "  The  Doctor  .  .  ." 

The  housekeeper  opened  her  lips  to  the  invocation ;  some- 
thing like  a  sob  escaped  them,  outstripping  speech. 

"  It's  naught,"  she  said,  but  her  mouth  and  bosom  belied 
her.  "  Gan  back  i'  room,  and  don't  listen  ti  syke  tales. 
Doctor'll  come  back  when  he's  fit,  and  not  before." 

"  Tales  ?  "  The  faintness  seemed  nearer ;  there  was  a  dim 
bell  tolling  in  it. 

"  Anne  .  .  .  you  are  keeping  something  from  me. 
What  have  you  heard  ?  " 

"  I'se  heard  naught  that  I'll  believe,"  Anne  retorted  obsti- 


330  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

nately,  and  drew  breath  by  a  spasm  through  one  twisted  nos- 
tril. "  Folks  tells  ower  many  lies.  Gan  back  i'  room  and 
set  doon." 

"  I  will  not,"  Jane  cried,  all  her  fears  coming  forth  in  a 
supreme  display  of  mistress-ship.  "  I  am  not  a  child,  Anne. 
You  are  making  me  feel  dreadful.  It  is  too  absurd  of  you. 
Tell  me  at  once.  I  insist.  What  has  happened  ?  "  Strug- 
gling with  the  sense  of  a  duty  incumbent  on  her,  yet  visibly 
anxious  to  be  made  to  ease  her  bosom  of  the  burden  beneath 
which  it  rose  and  fell,  the  housekeeper  weakened  in  resist- 
ance against  Jane's  authority.  "  Naught's  happened,"  she 
protested.  "  Not  it.  It's  nobbut  what  yon  milk-lass  says. 
Fond  thing  ought  to  for-shame  on  herself,  bringing  syke 
nonsense  tiv  a  body's  door."  Her  face  began  to  twist  as 
she  approached  circuitously  to  the  dread  weeping-cross  of 
her  tidings.  "Aboot  folks  being  .  .  .  being  drowned 
and  all." 

"  Drowned ! "  It  was  a  marble  mistress  that  echoed  the 
word,  struck  motionless  beneath  the  meaning  of  it. 

"  Don't  believe  it,"  Anne  threw  vehemently  at  her,  using 
her  hands  as  if  she  cast  away  credence  like  dust.  "  Drowned 
he  never  is." 

"Drowned!"  said  Jane.     "Not    ...     the  Doctor." 

"  Oh,  miss !  "  cried  Anne,  subsiding  backward  on  to  a  chair 
and  burying  her  streaming  eyes  in  her  apron,  "  don't  look 
at  me  like  that.  You  make  me  almost  think  it's  true." 

She  sobbed  into  her  apron :  "  I  was  the  first  to  nurse  him 
when  he  was  a  bairn." 

"  Anne !  "  It  was  all  that  Jane  could  utter.  She  used 
the  name  as  a  leaning  pillar  for  distress ;  rested  the  body  of 
grief  against  it ;  melted  over  the  friendly  word  in  tears.  All 
about  her,  for  the  moment,  a  sea  seemed  surging ;  the  threat- 
ening faintness  from  afar  rolled  up  and  submerged  her.  She 
did  not  sink,  but  stood  and  swayed  while  the  darkness  em- 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  331 

braced  her,  and  laid  cold  wet  lips  upon  her  forehead,  and 
let  her  go.  The  weeping  figure  of  Anne  swam  into  view 
after  a  brief  eternity,  as  though  the  whole  hall  had  been 
revolving  around  her  in  the  blank  spin  of  her  thoughts. 
Drowned!  Her  mind  laid  hold  of  the  word  again,  and  the 
horror  of  it  woke  her.  For  all  the  streaming  of  her  tears 
she  was  herself  once  more  —  the  Jane  of  imperatives ;  quick, 
forceful ;  possibly,  too,  impatient ;  with  more  than  a  wish  to 
shake  the  weeping  woman.  This  thing  could  not  be  true. 
It  must  not  be  true.  It  should  not  be  true.  "  What  have 
you  heard  ?  Who  told  you  ?  Quick !  "  She  thrust  the  sen- 
tences unceremoniously  at  the  stricken  figure ;  tore  away  the 
apron  from  the  bent  head,  and  forced  the  weeping  eyes  to 
meet  the  daylight  and  her  questions.  Thus  adjured,  the 
housekeeper  substituted  sniffs  for  the  apron  corner,  and 
spoke  in  paroxysms,  with  one  side  of  her  face  convex. 

"  Milk-lass  asked  Hester  just  noo  if  it  was  true,"  she 
sniffed.  "  Hester  runs  inti  kitchen.  '  Oh,  mum !  is  it  true 
Doctor's  drowned ! '  The  housekeeper  wiped  her  eyes  and 
mouth  with  the  apron,  and  dried  her  fingers  on  it.  "  I  says 
'  Drowned !  For  shame  o'  yourself  to  say  syke  a  thing. 
There's  many  a  true  word  spoken  i'  jest.'  She  says :  '  Milk- 
lass  says  he's  been  drowned  up  at  Kenham,'  and  then  she 
throws  apron  ower  her  head  and  sobs  while  I  was  jealous 
you'd  hear  her." 

"  Where  is  the  milk-girl  ?  "  Jane  made  a  movement  to- 
wards the  door. 

"  She's  gone.  I  went  oot  to  try  and  mek  her  take  back 
her  words.  *  You'll  regret  'em  yet,'  I  tells  her,  but  she  said 
she  was  only  telling  us  same  as  she'd  been  telt.  So  I  fetches 
Hester  a  clatter  across  shoulder,  and  calls  oct,  '  What's  use 
o'  blairin'  there  like  a  three-days'  calf.  Gan  your  ways  to 
townend  quick,  before  I  fetch  ye  another,  and  ask  question 
o'  somebody  we  can  believe.  There  never  was  a  milk-lass 


332  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

yet  could  speak  truth.'  He's  not  drowned,"  she  protested, 
emerging  out  of  liquid  grief  into  her  old  fierce  semblance. 
"  Nor  nobody'll  ever  make  me  believe  it." 

Jane  pressed  a  palm  against  each  throbbing  temple. 

"  When  was  it    ...    do  they  say  ?  " 

"  Lass  said  last  night.  But  he  had  Jack  Thatcher  i'  trap 
wi'  him.  If  he's  drowned,  why  isn't  Jack  Thatcher  drowned 
and  all?  It  dizn't  stand  to  sense.  If  onnybody's  been 
drowned,  do  you  think  it  would  be  doctor?  Not  him.  It's 
that  Jack  Thatcher,  a  deal  more  like.  Lad's  fond  enough 
for  aught." 

Jane  shook  her  head. 

"  I  ...  I  wish  I  could  think  it,  Anne,"  she  said. 
"  He  might  have  been  driving  home  alone."  Anne  sank 
forthwith  into  tears  again.  Jane  followed  her,  not  less 
agonized. 

"  I  do  my  best  to  cheer  ye,"  the  housekeeper  sniffed,  "  and 
gie  ye  a  bit  o'  comfort;  but  ye  wean't  let  me.  Ye  mek  me 
feel  as  bad  as  you.  Syke  a  man  as  he  was.  Don't  cry.  I 
can't  bide  to  see  you.  Them  Thatchers  will  never  dare  to 
lift  up  their  heads  again  if  anything's  happened  him.  It  was 
them  that  fetched  him.  Aye,  a  nice  idea  and  all;  syke  a 
night."  Their  grief  was  flowing  in  swift  sympathy  now. 
Neither  woman  doubted,  in  her  heart,  the  truth  of  what  she 
contested  with  her  tears.  The  struggle  against  this  cup  of 
bitterness  was  brief;  weeping  compliance,  they  shared  the 
potion.  Even  as  they  drank  they  nurtured  dim  thoughts  of 
deliverance  from  the  draught;  raised  their  heads  for  the 
tokens  of  Hester's  return.  But  she  would  bring  horror  with 
her,  both  knew.  The  first  sound  of  her  footsteps  would  be 
the  signal  for  their  renewed  and  deeper  weeping;  corrobora- 
tion  would  make  her  face  dreadful  to  look  upon. 

"  Wi'oot  disrespect,"  the  housekeeper  sniveled,  "  I 
thought  as  much  on  him  as  if  he'd  been  my  son.  It  would 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  333 

be  ...  a  comfort  to  me  to  think  he  knew  it.  I've 
spoken  roughish  tiv  him  a  time  or  two.  God  knows  I  never 
meant  aught  by  it  .  .  .  but  love.  His  mother  will  be  a 
proud  woman  when  they  lay  him  next  her." 

The  confession  of  the  aged  housekeeper  wrung  Jane's 
heart.  Some  power  irresistible  within  her;  some  rising 
sense  of  a  personal  sinfulness  needing  pardon,  of  a  guilt 
indefinable  calling  to  be  cleansed  and  purified,  drove  her  on 
a  sudden  to  her  knees.  She  cast  herself  on  the  flagstones 
by  the  weeping  woman;  hsr  attitude  suggested  a  sympathy 
bestowed  rather  than  one  coveted. 

"  Don't.  Don't,"  she  begged.  "  I  can't  bear  to  hear  you. 
You  have  nothing  to  reproach  yourself  with.  But  I  ... 
Oh,  Anne!  If  he  is  .  .  .  what  they  say,  I  shall  never 
forgive  myself.  Never.  Never." 

"  I've  been  jealous  o'  you,"  the  housekeeper  admitted,  and 
one  hand  found  the  dear  small  head  bowed  in  its  extremity. 
"  I  wean't  deny  it  noo,  wi'  death  at  door.  Many  a  time 
.  .  .  But  I  ask  pardon  for  it.  What  was  I  but  a  fond 
aud  woman  ?  It's  easy  to  forgive  syke.  There  was  nobody 
i'  the  world  he  loved  better  than  you."  The  tribute  at 
this  sacred  hour  drew  forth  a  burst  of  tears. 

"  And  I  ...  I  was  going  to  leave  him !  Oh, 
Anne ! "  Silent  sobs  in  the  girl's  bosom  suffocated  her. 
"  After  all  his  goodness !  " 

"  Ah,  my  lass !  "  Anne  wept  over  her,  "  you  don't  know 
half  his  goodness  yet  —  nor  even  a  quarter.  Some  day  meb- 
be,  you'll  know  as  much  as  me.  Then  you  may  weep.  He's 
worth  .  .  .  he's  worth  anybody's  tears." 

"  Last  night,"  Jane  said,  impelled  by  the  desire  to  pour 
forth  all  that  her  condemnatory  heart  held,  "  last  night  I 
could  not  sleep.  I  kept  turning  over  in  my  bed  .  .  . 
and  saying :  '  How  can  you  leave  him !  How  can  you  leave 
him ! '  And  then  —  I  don't  know  why  ...  I  was  over- 


334  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

wrought  by  that  dreadful  man  —  I  said,  '  Suppose  he  never 
comes  back  alive ! '  I  had  a  presentiment.  Three  times  I 
rose  and  looked  out  of  the  window.  Once  I  stole  out  to 
his  door.  It  was  open.  Anne  ...  I  will  tell  you.  I 
prayed  for  him  ...  by  his  own  bed.  Oh,  Anne  if 
God  has  not  answered  my  prayer  ...  I  will  never  pray 
again  —  never,  never !  Hush !  "  Her  hands  fastened  on 
the  old  woman's  knees;  her  head  rose  up  from  its  abase- 
ment. In  that  intense  moment  of  expectancy,  her  face 
seemed  to  detach  itself  in  a  flash  from  all  the  weakness  of 
its  tears;  the  tears  lay  on  the  cheeks  as  they  might  have 
lain  upon  stone,  but  the  countenance  was  carved,  inexorable ; 
a  decree  that  some  sculptor  of  the  emotions  had  chiselled 
for  ever  in  marble.  Never,  it  seemed,  could  the  look  be 
melted  or  subdued.  "  What  is  it  ?  .  .  .  Who  is  there  ?  " 
She  rose  to  her  feet,  gauntly,  haggardly,  as  though  a  specter 
sued  her  with  beckoning  finger.  Footsteps  approached  the 
door.  Voices  commingled ;  a  hand  was  on  the  bell,  drawing 
the  wire  as  some  dread  archer  might  have  drawn  his  bow- 
string to  discharge  the  quarrel  of  death.  White,  without  a 
word,  the  girl  crossed  the  hall,  took  breath  with  bowed  head, 
and  opened  the  door. 

"  Berkeley ! " 

The  sight  of  his  grave  face,  with  the  vicar's  lips  twisting 
beyond,  confirmed'  her  worst  fears.  There  was  no  comfort 
for  her  in  these  countenances.  Like  her  own  they  were 
carved  in  stone.  She  noted,  with  grief's  quick  discernment, 
how  her  unexpected  presence  discomposed  them,  lent  trouble 
to  their  faces.  She  found  strength  to  whisper: 

"You  have  heard?" 

Berkeley  bowed  his  head. 


XL 

SHE  drew  back  from  the  door;  Berkeley  and  the  vicar 
followed  her  into  the  hall.  Neither  looked  at  her. 
Berkeley  held  his  head  constrainedly  aside ;  the  vicar's  lips 
moved  as  though  he  were  reciting  prayers,  or  rehearsing  the 
multiplication  table.  Jane  unlocked  her  fingers;  her  lower 
lip  was  drawn  quivering  back,  suggesting  a  sob  held  in 
captivity.  "  It  is  true  ?  " 

Berkeley  lent  her  his  eyes  for  the  fraction  of  a  second; 
noted  the  wetness  of  her  cheeks,  and  dropped  his  glance. 

"  It  is  what  I  am  here  to  inquire."  He  fingered  the  brim 
of  his  hat  as  though  it  were  the  keyboard  of  Barnes  Welkit's 
accordion.  "  I  ...  I  hope  not.  It  has  come  as  a  ter- 
rible shock  to  me."  He  caught  sight  of  the  housekeeper^ 
hanging  terribly  on  his  words,  her  fingers  industrious  with 
the  corners  of  her  apron.  "Where  is  the  Doctor?" 

"  The  Doctor  ? "  Jane  gazed  at  him  incredulously. 
"  Surely  you  .  .  .  you  have  heard  ? "  The  blank  face 
meeting  hers  caused  hope  to  leap  with  fierce  unreason,  but 
the  necessity  to  dislodge  once  more  by  speech  this  dread 
thing  at  the  source  of  her  tears  caused  them  to  flow  afresh. 
"  Why  else  are  you  here  ?  They  say  .  .  ."  the  wall  of 
tears  hid  him  from  her ;  .  .  .  "  Numphy  was  drowned. 
Last  night  .  .  ." 

Not  much  comfort  issued  from  Berkeley's  lips.  The 
tidings  nipped  them  to  sudden  gray  solemnity,  as  though  a 
hoar  frost  had  fallen  on  them ;  under  the  intelligence,  and 
before  the  sight  of  Jane's  distress,  his  features  became  in- 
finitely small  and  insignificant,  a  countenance  incapable  of 

335 


336  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

the  finer  consolations,  expressive  merely  of  the  gravity  due 
to  death.  After  a  while  he  said  hurriedly,  under  his  breath : 
"  That  is  very  shocking.  Have  you  made  inquiries  ?  I  hope 
it  may  be  untrue." 

The  vicar,  laboriously  straining  their  words  for  enlighten- 
ment, with  a  face  wrinkled  in  its  perplexity  like  butter 
muslin,  cried,  "  God  bless  me !  .  .  .  Speak  up,  some  of 
you.  I  declare  I  haven't  caught  a  word.  What's  the  mat- 
ter now  ?  "  Berkeley  turned  his  mouth,  portentously  shaped, 
towards  the  vicar's  face,  which  was  at  once  replaced  by  a 
large  and  thirsty  ear,  with  a  hand  cupping  it. 

"Jane  has  heard  a  report  .  .  .  that  Dr.  Bentham 
was  drowned  last  night." 

The  words  were  uttered  with  no  more  voice  than  the 
vicar's  deafness  demanded,  but  to  Jane's  shrinking  heart 
their  volume  struck  her  cruel  and  callous.  The  vicar  caught 
the  word  "  Drowned,"  and  started  away  from  it  as  though 
cold  water,  not  words,  had  been  poured  into  his  listening 
ear;  a  face  of  fermenting  trouble  replaced  the  receptive  or- 
gan; the  lips  trembled. 

"  Drowned !  Dr.  Bentham !  God  bless  me,  Berkeley ; 
what  next !  "  Tears  swam  into  his  eyes.  "  When  ?  How  ? 
Where?  It  seems  incredible.  Poor  fellow,  poor  fellow. 
You  shouldn't  have  shouted  the  news  so  abruptly,"  he  ex- 
claimed, groping  for  his  handkerchief.  "  I  wasn't  quite 
ready  for  it.  I  declare  it's  come  as  a  shock  to  me."  No 
consolatory  scriptures  visited  his  lips,  but  his  grief  was  genu- 
ine, and  the  sight  of  the  mopped  handkerchief,  staunching 
honest  tears,  was  not  without  companionable  comfort  for 
Jane.  It  was  the  vicar,  not  Berkeley,  whose  hands  took 
hers  and  held  them  in  commiserative  clasp.  "  There,  there. 
Poor  child!  Poor  Jane!  I  grieve  for  you  with  all  my 
heart.  He  will  be  terribly  missed.  What  age  would  the 
poor  fellow  be  ?  Drowned !  God  bless  me.  Who'd  have 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  337 

thought  it  from  the  look  of  him?  It  only  shows  how  im- 
portant it  is  for  everybody  to  learn  to  swim.  There,  there. 
Let  us  go  and  sit  down.  I  declare  you've  made  my  legs 
quite  shaky,  Berkeley.  I'm  a  bit  surprised  at  you.  You 
knew  how  friendly  we  were."  Jane  withdrew  her  hands. 

"  I  cannot  sit  down,  Uncle  Horace.  I  thought  you  had 
brought  me  news.  I  must  go  ...  I  ought  not  to  be 
staying  here.  Anne  .  .  .  tell  Holmes  to  harness  Daisy 
for  me  at  once." 

Berkeley's  lips  moved  in  faint  lines  of  dissuasion,  scarcely 
audible.  The  vicar,  catching  the  sense  of  her  determined 
clear  voice,  cried :  "  No,  no.  That  is  not  the  task  for  a  girl. 
You  would  only  distress  yourself  unnecessarily,  and  cause 
trouble.  Come  along  to  the  room  with  me,  Jane.  Poor 
fellow  .  .  .  poor  fellow;  so  fond  of  his  horses!  They 
will  bring  him  reverently  back,  you  may  be  quite  sure. 
Whatever  was  he  thinking  about!  I  fear  we  shall  discover 
he  has  been  foolhardy.  It  does  not  matter  how  harmless 
water  may  look,  there's  always  an  element  of  danger.  One 
can't  be  too  careful." 

Jane's  eyes  and  Berkeley's  met  in  a  swift  glance  of  under- 
standing, alive  with  dismay;  both  had  heard  the  ominous 
sound  of  wheels.  Berkeley,  shirking  the  sight  of  further 
distress,  prompted  retirement.  "Jane,  you  would  be  better 
in  the  room.  I  will  stay  here.  Uncle  .  .  .  there  is  a 
conveyance  coming  up  the  drive.  Will  you  take  Jane  away 
with  you  ?  " 

Jane,  half  a  fugitive  to  her  own  fears,  yet  scorning  flight 
as  at  once  unworthy  of  her  courage  and  dishonoring  to  the 
beloved  Numphy  of  her  weeping,  stood  her  ground  obsti- 
nately for  a  while  against  the  vicar's  persuasions.  So  long, 
indeed,  did  she  resist  his  tensive  arm,  with  all  her  being 
thrown  into  the  supreme  balance  of  that  awesome  sound, 
that  the  advancing  wheels  gained  over  hesitation ;  reached 


338  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

too  suddenly  a  point  where  her  retirement  would  have  been 
but  flight  precipitate.  She  drew  her  arm  from  the  vicar's 
hold  and  faced  the  door.  There  was  a  scuffle  in  the  hall 
behind  her:  excited  aprons  in  a  whirl;  voices,  half  sobbing, 
half  laughterful.  "  Miss  Jane,  Miss  Jane  .  .  ."  And 
next  moment,  out  of  the  bemuddied  wet  trap,  drawn  up  be- 
fore the  open  door,  the  Doctor  tripped  to  ground. 

Berkeley  said :  "  The  report  is  utterly  without  foundation. 
You  have  been  needlessly  alarmed."  He  stood  to  a  side. 
The  vicar  dropped  his  arm  from  its  attempt  to  persuade 
Jane  into  the  breakfast-room,  and  threw  forward  a  face  at 
the  advancing  Doctor  as  though  he  were  some  illegible  and 
incomprehensible  word. 

"  God  bless  me ! "  he  cried,  as  his  eyes,  confirmed,  without 
joy,  the  Doctor's  figure.  "  Why,  here  the  fellow  is.  I  de- 
clare ...  I  thought  the  man  was  dead.  Who  told  me 
he  had  been  drowned?  Here  I've  been  using  my  handker- 
chief in  a  perfectly  ridiculous  fashion,  and  he's  alive  all  the 
time.  God  bless  me!  Everything  grows  into  a  nightmare 
for  a  deaf  man.  Who  are  we  weeping  for?  The  chap's  as 
dry  as  a  bone." 

"  Numphy ! "  The  single  heartfelt  cry  was  Jane's. 
Jane's  very  soul,  as  though  torn  out  from  her  body  by  a  joy 
too  triumphant,  leaped  forth  in  the  word.  Hopes  requited, 
with  fears  not  yet  dispelled ;  terrors  reawakened  by  the  sight 
of  him ;  swift  yearnings  to  embrace ;  affection  liberated  from 
anxiety,  springing  to  rebuke ;  the  need  to  have  and  to  hold 
him  safe  within  her  arms,  and  to  feel  this  living  semblance 
of  him  no  illusion,  but  comfortable  flesh  and  blood  —  all 
these  sent  her  headlong  to  his  neck.  "  Oh,  how  you  have 
frightened  us ! "  She  wanted  to  hug  and  shake,  caress  and 
scold  and  kiss  him  in  one  great  comprehensive  act,  but  at 
the  approach  of  her  lips  he  suddenly  turned  aside  his  mouth ; 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  339 

interposed  a  hand.  "  No,  no.  You  must  not  kiss  me, 
Jane." 

"  Not  kiss  you ! "  She  fell  back  from  that  prohibitive 
hand;  never  had  his  care  of  her  taken  less  welcome  guise 
than  this. 

"  It  is  not  safe.  ...  I  have  been  up  with  a  dangerous 
case  all  night."  He  put  her  gently  away.  "  Some  other 
time,  Jane."  He  noticed  now  the  signs  of  weeping. 
"  What !  Tears  ?  "  Half  subsiding  into  them  once  more  in 
the  narration,  as  is  the  way  with  women  whose  grief  makes 
of  tears  a  fluent  and  intelligible  tongue,  speaking  fears  and 
subtleties  beyond  expression  in  our  grosser  speech,  Jane 
breathed  forth  in  quick  dislocated  sentences  the  history  of 
this  wetness  on  her  cheeks.  For  him!  She  had  wept  for 
him !  This  little  cold  entity,  more  precious  to  his  heart  than 
the  finest  work  of  Phidias  in  marble,  had  translated  her  love 
of  him  into  tears!  He  smiled  on  her  —  a  smile  that  Jane 
never  forgot ;  like  the  smile  of  a  sinking  sun  when,  from  be- 
hind some  leaden  clouds  of  thunder,  the  sanctified  orb  kisses 
the  world  good-night,  and  makes  all  heavenly  the  golden 
countryside.  From  her  he  turned  a  flushed  and  tired  face 
to  the  two  visitors,  giving  them  greeting  in  terms  of  surprise 
for  their  so  early  call. 

"  You  don't  mean  .  .  ."  he  said,  "  that  you  were 
brought  out  by  this  silly  rumor.  I  don't  know  how  ever  it 
has  got  abroad  —  except  that  I  had  to  drive  through  the 
water  last  night,  on  my  way  to  Kenham."  He  stopped  at 
that,  for  the  faces  of  these  two  listeners  struck  him,  all  at 
once,  as  curiously  troubled.  No  gladness  showed  for  the 
fallacy  of  a  report  which  allowed  him  to  be  among  the  living ; 
their  faces  were  shallow  of  interest  in  his  speech,  as  though 
some  other  thought  within  them  offered  a  dead  wall  to  his 
words.  A  curious  constraint  came  over  them  all,  as  of  be- 


340  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

ings  rendered  suddenly  uncertain  of  each  others'  thought 
and  motives.  Jane,  watching  —  with  a  swollen  heart  —  her 
Numphy's  eyes  seek  first  the  one  and  then  the  other  of  these 
two  faces  confronting  him,  felt  rise  within  her  a  swift 
championship  of  the  tired-looking  man;  an  anger  almost 
tinged  with  momentary  hatred  at  the  sight  of  Berkeley's 
face,  so  pinched  and  joyless.  To  her  it  seemed  even  dis- 
torted with  a  quality  of  vexation  at  the  Doctor's  safety. 
The  vicar,  restless  under  observation  and  his  sense  of  deaf- 
ness, kept  muttering  unintelligible  phrases  between  his  lips. 
The  pause  which  showed  these  figures  to  her  thus  was  of  not 
more  than  a  second's  duration,  but  it  photographed  the 
picture  on  her  mind  like  a  landscape,  lightning-revealed. 
Next  moment  she  heard  the  doctor  ask  if  their  visit  were  to 
him.  Berkeley  answered  in  the  affirmative.  "  I  would  like 
to  speak  to  you,"  he  said  in  his  dry  voice,  and  added  the 
word,  "  privately,"  as  though  the  word  were  needed,  without 
any  direct  look  at  Jane,  in  a  way  which  stung  her  pride. 
"  I  will  go  if  you  wish  it,  Berkeley,"  she  told  him.  He  did 
not  bid  her  remain,  or  dispute  her  interpretation  of  the 
odious  word,  but  seemed  to  move  his  head  in  token  that  he 
heard  her. 

She  raised  her  chin  with  one  high  shining  look  at  Numphy, 
and  quitted  them. 


XLI 

THE  doctor  led  the  way  into  the  little  antiseptic  smelling 
surgery,  where  the  pills  and  mixtures,  the  lotions  and 
liniments  for  the  troubles  of  a  whole  district  were  com- 
pounded, and  closed  the  door,  pointing  to  chairs.  Neither 
visitor  seated  himself.  The  vicar  threw  out  a  hand  depre- 
catory of  any  trouble  on  his  behalf,  saying :  "  Not  for  me 
.  .  .  I  get  more  sitting  than  is  good  for  me.  I  declare 
I  wear  a  pair  of  trousers  bright  in  a  fortnight."  Berkeley 
shaped  a  grave  negative  with  his  lips  pursed  above  the  soft 
felt  hat  that  he  held  compressed  against  his  bosom,  in  the 
attitude  dear  to  the  junior  clergy.  A  second  brief  silence 
fell  upon  them  with  their  entry,  and  in  that  silence  the  Doc- 
tor's color  heightened.  For  the  first  time  his  tired  mind  had 
energy  to  rise  and  exercise  its  function.  Berkeley's  opening 
WQrds  confirmed  his  fears. 

"  It  is  a  painful  subject  I  have  to  speak  on,  Dr.  Bentham." 

The  formality  of  that  "  Dr.  Bentham  "  marked  the  breach 
in  mind  between  them.  The  doctor  inclined  his  head. 

"  Don't  fear  to  be  open  with  me." 

"  I  understood  ...  I  understood  from  you  that  Miss 
Alston's  father  .  .  ."  The  doctor  drew  his  breath. 
This  morning,  of  all  mornings,  he  was  ill  prepared  for  the 
momentous  struggle.  Berkeley,  who  had  paused  just  ap- 
preciably on  the  summit  of  his  sentence,  as  though  to  take 
some  sight  and  guidance  from  the  Doctor's  countenance  for 
its  descent,  completed  the  phrase,  ".  .  .  was  dead."  He 
said  no  more.  The  sentence  put  forth  seemed  to  writhe  in 
the  silence  that  followed  like  a  live  thing,  a  snake,  twisting 


342  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

and  horrible,  calling  for  dispatch.  Both  men  turned  their 
eyes  upon  the  mortal  whom  this  writhing  falsehood  chal- 
lenged ;  both  men  saw  the  surrender  in  his  face.  He  stepped 
back  to  the  fireplace,  and  turned  there,  facing  them  again. 
"  So  I  had  hoped  ...  at  one  time." 

"  Do  you  believe  that  now  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  I  cannot." 

"  You  know  he  is  alive  ?  " 

"  I  have  reason  to  fear  it." 

"  You  have  been  contributing  sums  of  money  to  his  silence. 
Is  that  true?" 

"  If  you  seek  to  put  it  in  that  way    .     .     ." 

"  I  do  put  it  in  that  way.     I  must  put  it  in  that  way." 

"Then    ...    it  is  true." 

"  You  are  acquainted  with  Miss  Alston's  father  ?  " 

"  I  have  seen  him." 

"  He  has  lost  the  sight  of  an  eye.  He  is  ...  I  can- 
not bring  myself  to  describe  him.  You  know  that  he  has 
fallen  away  from  all  respectability,  that  he  could  not  be  ad- 
mitted into  any  decent  society." 

"  I  fear  so." 

"Why  have  you  practiced  this  deception?" 

The  Doctor  raised  his  hand  in  a  scarcely  appreciable  in- 
dication of  the  door,  and  of  what  lay  dearest  to  his  heart 
beyond.  "  For  Her  sake."  These  questions  falling  regu- 
larly upon  the  naked  body  of  his  submission  seared  him  as 
though  they  had  been  whipthongs.  In  this  hour  of  his  degra- 
dation he  hated  the  hard  dry  face  of  Berkeley  Hislop,  armed 
with  the  scourging  rod  of  righteousness  that  his  own  decep- 
tion had  put  into  these  hostile  hands.  For  pride  he  could  not 
bring  himself  to  raise  a  defensive  arm  against  the  lash  of 
each  query  as  it  fell,  although  the  questions  stung  him  to  do 
fierce  battle  with  the  foe  that  wielded  them.  Contempt  of 
himself  made  the  blows  scarce  bitter  enough.  That  he 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  343 

should  ever  have  suffered  his  moral  body  to  be  flagellated  for 
untruthfulness  by  such  a  rod-master  made  him  sick  and  help- 
less. In  the  first  revolt  he  felt  only  the  desire  to  be  done 
with  this  ordeal,  to  be  left  to  nurse  his  wounds,  to  lave  this 
injured  self-esteem.  His  mind  lacked  energy  to  ask  by  what 
means  imprisoned  truth  had  been  let  free ;  shame  swallowed 
up  all  speculation.  Before  these  men,  who  had  sat  at  his 
table  and  taken  his  hand  in  friendship,  he  felt  himself  stand 
on  a  sudden  convicted  and  humbled.  They  were  judges, 
both  of  them;  he,  stripped  of  his  truth  and  honor,  could 
only  plead  for  their  mercy  by  extenuation. 

"  For  Her  sake  ?  "  he  heard  Berkeley  Hislop  repeat,  and 
the  words  in  their  repetition  seemed  to  strike  back  at  him, 
contemptuous  and  condemnatory.  "  Had  you  no  thought  or 
consideration  for  Me  ?  "  For  the  first  time  the  younger  man 
showed  the  trouble  he  was  in,  passing  his  flat  right  hand 
across  the  corresponding  temple.  "  Did  you  never  reflect 
what  the  ultimate  discovery  of  this  thing  would  mean,  to  all 
concerned?  You  must  have  done,  or  you  would  never  have 
tried  to  conceal  it."  His  fingers  were  nervously  at  work 
upon  the  circumference  of  his  hat.  "  It  alters  everything 
.  .  .  I  am  placed  in  a  most  ignoble  position.  Whatever 
you  may  be  disposed  to  think,  I  had  come  to  care  very 
sincerely  for  her.  This  sudden  change  falls  as  a  dreadful 
blow."  He  touched  his  forehead  passingly  again  with  his 
hand.  "  Why  did  you  not  tell  me  from  the  first  ?  All  this 
time  .  .  .  over  two  years  .  .  .  and  I  in  complete 
trust  and  ignorance,  never  doubting.  It  is  terrible.  How 
am  I  to  explain  my  position?  I  can  scarcely  say  what  I 
think  of  you,  Dr.  Bentham.  Your  conduct  strikes  me  as 
both  cowardly  and  wicked.  The  words  come  to  my  tongue : 
I  must  utter  them.  Is  falsehood  any  pledge  for  happiness? 
Had  you  no  better  thought  for  Miss  Alston  than  to  allow 
her  to  enter  upon  the  most  sacred  obligation  of  a  woman's 


344  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

life  without  any  knowledge  of  the  terrible  truth  that  .  .  . 
that  overshadows  her.  For  I  am  doing  her  the  justice  to 
suppose  she  is  ignorant  of  what  has  come  to  my  knowledge." 
He  faltered  momentarily  in  his  faith.  "  If  I  thought 
.  .  ."  he  began.  But  the  Doctor  was  quick  to  save  him, 
for  Jane's  sake,  from  the  utterance  of  such  a  base  suspicion. 

"  She  knows  nothing.  Not  a  word.  It  has  been  my  one 
endeavor  to  keep  her  from  all  knowledge  of  it." 

"  Under  certain  conditions  such  care  might  be  commend- 
able. But  as  soon  as  another  interest  becomes  so  closely 
involved  with  Miss  Alston's  .  .  ."  He  left  that  sen- 
tence unfinished  too,  and  returned  restlessly  to  a  previous 
question,  as  though  his  troubled  mind  could  scarcely  bear  to 
remain  long  in  one  locality  of  thought,  but  must  keep  pacing 
to  and  fro.  His  reflections  seemed  of  the  nature  of  a  figured 
carpet,  whose  patterns  he  was  prepared  to  trace  and  retrace 
endlessly  underfoot.  "  Why  did  you  not  reveal  the  truth  to 
me  two  years  ago?  It  was  your  duty." 

The  Doctor  said,  "  I  admit  it.  I  ought  to  have  told  you. 
But  the  mischief  was  already  done.  If  you  had  yourself 
forewarned  me  of  your  intentions  towards  Jane,  I  should 
never  have  withheld  it  from  you.  But  the  first  intimation 
of  your  feelings  came  from  Jane  herself.  It  was  .  .  . 
a  shock  to  me.  I  was  plunged  into  the  deepest  trouble  by 
it.  It  has  cost  me  hours  of  sleep  and  peace  of  mind." 

"  That  is  no  excuse,  Dr.  Bentham,"  Berkeley  said  through 
his  dry  lips. 

"  I  suppose  not.  But  I  shrank  from  the  consequences  of 
telling  you.  You  had  won  Jane's  affection;  all  her  heart 
was  wrapped  up  in  you.  Nothing  else  was  in  her  thought  or 
speech  then.  And  I  was  afraid  lest  anything  I  might 
say  .  .  ." 

"  In  other  words,"  Berkeley  Hislop  took  up,  "  you  were 
prepared,  Dr.  Bentham,  to  sacrifice  me  for  your  scruples  to- 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  345 

wards  Miss  Alston.  You  would  have  let  the  present  ar- 
rangement continue  without  a  word,  until  my  position  was 
irrevocable."  There  was  a  dry  heat  animating  the  cold 
workings  of  his  lips.  "  Am  I  to  understand  that  that  is 
what  you  meant  ?  " 

"  Even  if  I  tell  you  the  contrary,"  the  Doctor  answered, 
"  you  will  have,  under  the  circumstances,  the  right  to  dis- 
believe me.  Until  two  days  ago,  your  arrangement  with 
Miss  Alston  was  so  indefinite  ...  I  sustained  myself 
on  the  prospect  that  the  necessity  for  revealing  the  truth 
might  never  arise.  But  your  present  visit  did  away  with  this 
remote  contingency.  I  felt  concealment  was  no  longer  pos- 
sible—  not  only  on  your  account,  but  Miss  Alston's.  Had 
I  not  been  called  away  it  was  my  intention  to  have  told  the 
truth  last  night." 

Both  men  spoke  in  the  low  tones  of  earnestness  for  a  topic 
of  privacy,  and  the  vicar's  patience,  pursuing  the  unintelli- 
gible sounds  from  lip  to  lip,  came  to  an  abrupt  end  as  he 
saw  the  Doctor's  statement  escaping  him.  "  God  bless  me !  " 
he  cried,  tapping  Berkeley's  adjacent  shoulder,  "  I  haven't 
caught  two  words  all  the  time.  What's  the  man  saying 
now  ?  Is  he  denying  it  ?  " 

Berkeley  shook  free  of  his  uncle's  touch  a  little  irritably, 
as  he  might  have  brushed  aside  a  gnat. 

"  Dr.  Bentham  has  admitted  it." 

"  Admitted  it !  "  The  vicar's  face  was  eloquent  of  con- 
sternation. "  No  wonder  he  doesn't  speak  up."  In  his 
blank  distress  he  conversed  with  Berkeley,  as  though  the 
Doctor  were  not  present.  "  How  long  has  he  known  it  ?  " 
Berkeley  said,  "  Some  time."  The  vicar  shook  his  head. 
"  The  man  cannot  pretend  to  offer  any  excuse.  It  is  a  ter- 
rible situation.  Have  you  told  him  about  last  night?" 

Berkeley  said,  "  Not  yet." 

"  A  dreadful  scene,  Dr.  Bentham,"  the  vicar  proceeded, 


346  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

taking  charge  of  the  topic  raised.  "  The  fellow  had  actually 
the  barefaced  audacity  to  ring  the  vicarage  bell  at  half-past 
ten  at  night.  I  should  never  have  heard  him  myself,  if  he'd 
rung  till  doomsday,  but  Berkeley  —  brave  fellow  —  insisted 
on  putting  on  his  hat  and  overcoat,  and  going  to  the  garden 
door.  You  may  think  it  an  exaggeration,  but  I  assure  you 
the  wind,  when  Berkeley  went  into  the  garden  ...  I 
assure  you  the  wind  blew  the  hall  lamp  out.  There  was 
actually  snow.  And  Berkeley  in  his  thin  slippers !  " 

"  Boots,  uncle,"  Berkeley  corrected,  scrupulous  for  truth. 

"  Eh  ?  What  ?  The  vicar's  face  grew  murderous  in  its 
suspicion  of  a  deafness  at  fault  again.  "  Boots,  do  you  say  ? 
I  declare,  I  thought  .  .  .  What  were  you  doing  with 
boots  on  at  that  time  of  night?  Well,  well.  Boots  then. 
But  such  boots  as  yours  were  no  protection  against  a  night 
like  the  last.  And  there  at  the  wall-door,  Dr.  Bentham,  was 
this  disgraceful  fellow,  on  the  verge  of  delirium.  Berke- 
ley says  his  face  was  horrible  to  look  at.  He  could  smell 
him  of  drink  even  in  that  high  wind." 

Little  by  little  it  dawned  on  the  Doctor,  what  he  had  least 
of  all  suspected,  that  Julian  Alston  himself  was  the  traitor  to 
this  secret.  And  the  vicar,  warming  to  the  subject,  gradually 
unfolded  a  history  that  left  him  in  no  further  doubt.  It  was 
Julian  Alston,  indeed,  and  no  other,  who  had  disturbed  the 
vicarage  peace  last  night,  rilled  with  thoughts  of  fierce  re- 
venge for  his  rebuff  at  the  Doctor's  house,  and  suspecting, 
in  his  drunken  wrath,  the  Doctor's  hand  in  the  firm  resist- 
ance to  his  siege.  And  with  the  information  gained  from 
Pridgeon  earlier  in  the  night,  he  had  fought  his  way  through 
the  gale  to  score  a  drunkard's  revenge,  and  to  try  and  find  at 
the  vicarage  a  last  profitable  market  for  his  silence.  Amer- 
ica, it  seemed,  was  his  immediate  objective.  Reasons  —  the 
vicar  surmised  of  the  very  worst  —  compelled  him  to  leave 
his  native  land.  He  needed  money  for  the  purpose ;  failing 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  347 

money  he  threatened  a  hundred  consequences  of  the  direst: 
exposure;  systematic  persecution.  Jane  Alston  was  his 
daughter :  he  had  the  right  to  declare  it.  Wherever  she  went, 
no  man  could  prevent  his  following.  He  would  no  longer 
skulk  about  the  country,  leading  this  dog's  life  of  obscurity 
unless  the  task  were  well  requited.  Hundreds  of  pounds 
were  hinted  at ;  but  the  first  installment  of  these  must  be  im- 
mediate. With  the  remembrance  of  his  own  midnight  inter- 
view with  Julian  Alston  in  that  very  room,  the  doctor  was 
able  to  conjure  up  a  vivid  picture  of  the  scene  that  had 
shaken  the  serenity  of  the  vicarage  the  night  before. 
Through  a  haze  of  inward  hotness  and  shame,  he  received 
the  charges  of  the  vicar's  voice  without  defense. 

"  I  assure  you,  Dr.  Bentham,"  the  vicar  told  him,  "  the 
man's  conduct  was  violent  in  the  extreme.  At  one  time 
Berkeley  was  quite  prepared  for  the  fellow  to  strike  at  him 
—  and  not  a  single  policeman  within  a  mile  of  us.  A  shock- 
ing state  of  things.  I've  often  thought  about  it  when  my 
narcissuses  were  coming  up.  Anybody's  garden  might  be 
devastated  in  the  night  by  such  reckless  fellows,  and  not  a 
ha'porth  of  redress.  By  the  mercy  of  providence  Berkeley 
was  able  to  get  the  door  shut  on  him  at  last  —  though  the 
man  kicked  against  the  woodwork  like  a  horse.  He  must 
have  had  terribly  strong  boots.  The  marks  are  there  to  this 
moment  —  and  will  remain  for  many  of  my  successors  to 
see.  My  poor  Berkeley  was  terribly  upset.  The  brave  fel- 
low tried  to  keep  me  in  ignorance  of  what  had  happened, 
but  I  could  see  from  his  manner  that  something  terrible  had 
taken  place.  I  assure  you  his  face  was  as  white  as  a  sheet. 
However,  the  noble  fellow  could  not  be  persuaded  to  take 
any  stimulant.  A  man  of  rare  principle,  Dr.  Bentham!  I 
could  no  more  have  gone  to  bed  myself,  after  what  he  told 
me,  without  a  moderate  glass  of  whiskey  —  about  a  third  of 
a  glassful,  no  more  —  than  I  could  have  flown." 


348  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

Berkeley,  who  had  been  fretting  visibly  under  his  uncle's 
monopoly  of  the  conversation,  and  engaging  the  doctor's 
eye  from  time  to  time,  for  an  opening  of  his  own,  broke  in 
at  last. 

"  Well  .  .  .  there  is  no  more  to  be  said.  I  shall 
never  cease  to  blame  you,  Dr.  Bentham.  It  has  been  a  mis- 
erable experience  for  me." 

"  And  not  only  that,"  said  the  vicar.  "  The  fellow  must 
have  used  incredible  violence  in  ringing  the  bell.  I  assure 
you  the  door  crank  is  positively  twisted." 

Berkeley's  lips  twitched  and  a  gray  hardness  seemed  to 
settle  upon  them.  "  This,  of  course,  puts  an  end  to  every- 
thing." For  the  first  time  he  avoided  the  Doctor's  eye,  and 
spoke  aside. 

"Just  think  what  might  have  happened,"  pursued  the 
vicar,  "  if  I  had  gone  to  the  door  myself.  The  very  thought 
dismays  me.  My  deafness  might  have  goaded  the  man  to 
murder.  Berkeley  tells  me  his  language  was  positively 
blasphemous.  From  that  point  of  view,  I  suppose  a  deaf 
ear  is  something  to  be  thankful  for.  I  declare  I  can't  get 
over  it.  At  the  vicarage,  of  all  places!  Half-past  ten  at 
night!  And  by  this  probably  all  Sunfleet  knows  who  the 
fellow  is.  Terrible !  terrible !  "  He  turned  to  Berkeley  and 
asked  in  a  huskier  voice,  significant  of  a  confidential  whis- 
per :  "  Has  he  expressed  regret  ?  I  declare  .  .  .  when 
I  think  of  it,  I  can  scarcely  contain  myself." 

Berkeley  disengaged  his  hat  from  his  bosom  for  an  indi- 
cation that  nothing  now  was  to  be  gained  by  speech. 

"  We  will  detain  you  no  further,  Dr.  Bentham,"  he  said. 
"  My  profession  teaches  me  to  forgive  all  those  that  trespass 
against  me  .  .  .  but  in  your  case  I  will  confess  I  find 
the  task  hard.  Your  conduct  has  placed  me  in  a  humiliating 
position.  I  would  rather  not  see  Miss  Alston  personally 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  349 

again.  It  would  be  too  painful.  I  will  write.  The  bulk 
of  the  explanation,  of  course,  must  rest  with  you." 

Until  this  dire  moment,  the  Doctor  had  bowed  before  the 
wind  of  accusation,  man  enough  to  feel  it  no  more  than 
just  and  merited.  The  castigation  of  Berkeley  Hislop's 
moving  lips  and  righteous  eye  was  the  proper  reward  for 
such  duplicity  as  his.  But  when  he  saw  himself  confronted 
with  the  dread  consequences  for  Jane,  that  all  his  deceptive- 
ness  had  struggled  to  avert,  his  submissive  silence  rose  to 
a  more  supplicative  quality.  Berkeley  Hislop  had  already 
made  a  movement  on  his  foot  to  seek  the  door  when  the 
Doctor  said,  "  Stop  .  .  .  One  moment."  He  turned  at 
once  to  the  appeal,  but  there  was  no  encouragement  in  the 
nipped  face  and  tightened  lips. 

"  Will  you  not  .  .  .  Will  you  not  take  time  to  think 
over  this  ?  "  the  Doctor  begged  him  in  a  low,  earnest  voice. 
He  saw  the  refusal  shape  itself  behind  Berkeley  Hislop's 
lips,  and  struck  on  hurriedly.  "  Let  me  earnestly  beg  of 
you  to  try  and  forget  the  incident  of  last  night  before  com- 
mitting yourself  to  a  decision.  May  I  see  you  again  in  the 
course  of  the  day  ?  "  "I  am  leaving  here  at  noon,"  Berke- 
ley Hislop  said,  and  his  mouth  tightened  as  though  the 
thought  of  this  necessity  stung  him.  "  Nothing  is  to  be 
gained  by  conversation.  The  fact  is  established ;  mere  words 
cannot  alter  it." 

"  For  Jane's  sake  .  .  ."  the  Doctor  urged  him.  The 
twitch  contorted  his  lips  again,  as  though  the  supplication 
went  home.  Just  for  the  brief  moment  of  the  spasm,  when 
the  little  hidden  threads  seemed  to  pucker  the  gray  flesh  to 
relentment,  the  Doctor  felt  a  hope  of  him.  With  the  lever- 
age of  Jane's  name  and  memory  he  might  still  be  able  to 
move  this  rock  of  resolution  that  blocked  the  mouth  of 
Berkeley  Hislop's  forgiveness.  But  the  lips'  immediate 


350  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

hardening  undeceived  him.  "  Your  thought  for  Miss 
Alston,"  he  returned  coldly,  "  is  responsible  for  all  this  mis- 
chief. You  seem  to  think  that  Miss  Alston  is  a  sufficient 
justification  for  any  falsehood  or  unreasonableness,  so  long 
as  they  are  in  defense  of  her  welfare.  I  gave  you  credit  for 
more  discernment;  and,  I  will  add,  for  more  honesty.  Does 
it  never  occur  to  you  to  reflect  what  would  be  the  position 
of  the  vicar  of  an  important  parish,  liable  to  such  visitations 
as  that  which  was  paid  to  me  last  night?  What  respect  do 
you  suppose  I  could  obtain  from  my  parishioners  with  such 
facts  as  those  within  your  knowledge  clogging  my  authority  ? 
My  position  would  be  impracticable  —  impossible.  You 
must  see  it.  You  ought  to  have  realized  it  from  the  very 
first,  and  given  me  a  timely  warning.  Two  years  of  my 
life  .  .  .  and  this  as  a  result.  It  almost  makes  me 
doubt  the  providence  I  preach." 

The  Doctor  said,  "  I  do  not  contest  your  words.  The 
fault  is  mine.  I  have  lived  with  but  one  thought  in  these 
recent  years,  and  that  was  Jane's  —  Miss  Alston's  happi- 
ness. But  this  punishment  does  not  fall  on  me  —  for  all  I 
feel  your  reproaches  keenly,  as  you  must  see  and  know.  It 
falls  on  Miss  Alston's  shoulders.  It  is  she  who  is  being 
made  to  suffer.  At  a  time  when  her  heart  is  full  of  you, 
you  contemplate  retraction.  I  feel  I  have  no  right  to  be 
appealing  to  your  better  nature  after  what  has  passed  .  .  . 
but  I  am  the  only  advocate  she  has  in  all  the  world.  I 
think  you  cannot  realize  what  your  loss  will  mean  to  her. 
Do  not  act  hastily.  Let  me  beg  of  you  ...  A  little 
grace  before  the  step  is  taken  .  .  ." 

"  It  is  impossible.  The  circumstances  leave  me  with  no 
alternative." 

"  You  have  declared  your  love  for  her." 

"  Under  a  misconception,  deliberately  fostered." 

"  You  spoke  your  heart  to  her  without  inquiry." 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  351 

"  There  again  your  conduct  stands  impugned.  I  had  a 
right  to  suppose  that  any  favored  friend  of  my  uncle's  would 
be  worthy  of  regard.  You  owed  a  plain  duty  to  him  — 
more  especially  when  my  sister  became  a  visitor  at  the  vicar- 
age." 

"  Miss  Alston  is  a  lady.  Your  sister  has  suffered  nothing 
from  the  friendship." 

"  My  behavior  in  the  past  sufficiently  shows  my  admira- 
tion for  Miss  Alston's  personal  qualities  and  attainments. 
But  I  contend  that  it  was  for  my  uncle  to  decide  on  her 
desirability  as  my  sister's  friend,  and  not  for  you.  Had  you 
taken  the  proper  course  in  the  first  instance,  perhaps  the 
present  dreadful  complication  would  never  have  arisen." 

The  vicar,  encountering  his  nephew's  eye,  acquiesced  with 
a  shake  of  the  head  and  a  "  Horrible,  horrible !  The  man 
ought  scarcely  to  be  at  large.  Have  you  mentioned  Lady 
Frinton?  I  declare,  poor  Berkeley,  the  case  grows  more 
terrible  as  you  think  about  it.  God  bless  me!  Here  you 
have  been  wasting  your  time  all  these  years  .  .  .  and 
letting  baronets'  daughters  go  by.  But  the  fellow's  con- 
science ought  to  be  pricking  him  now  if  he  has  any  Christian 
feeling  left  in  his  body." 

Berkeley  uttered  a  terminative  "  Well ! "  as  though  to 
imply  the  futility  of  further  speech.  "  It  all  seems  a  dream. 
I  shall  be  thankful  to  get  back  to  work  again  and  shake  off 
the  memory  of  it." 

"  For  God's  sake  .  .  ."  protested  the  Doctor.  "  Show 
a  little  thought  ...  a  little  mercy.  Because  I  have 
failed  in  my  duty  to  you,  does  that  justify  you  in  this  cruel 
breach  of  duty  towards  her?  You  have  won  her  affection, 
her  love.  Can  you  contemplate  casting  it  aside  like  this,  in 
the  first  shadow  of  adversity  ?  " 

"  My  conception  of  love  includes  honor  and  respect," 
Berkeley  Hislop  replied. 


352  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

"  You  preach  equality  before  God,"  the  Doctor  exclaimed 
almost  contemptuously,  ".  .  .  and  the  supremacy  of  the 
soul,  and  yet  you  are  prepared  to  break  the  sacred  principles 
of  love  like  glass  for  a  matter  of  earthly  pride." 

The  swing  of  the  argument  that  had  first  borne  him  down 
to  humility  and  submissive  despair  lifted  him  up  again  on 
the  sweep  of  this  nobler  view  of  love.  On  a  sudden  he  had 
transcended  earth-born  shame  and  the  rectitude  of  Berke- 
ley Hislop,  and  felt,  in  the  higher,  purer  atmosphere,  that 
right  to  a  passion  which,  on  the  lower  plane  of  their  en- 
counter, in  shame  he  had  forgone.  Almost  eloquently  he 
pleaded  for  his  adversary's  allegiance  to  the  one  object  of 
his  love.  All  the  personal  hopes  and  yearnings  were  burnt 
out  of  him  by  the  ordeal  through  which  he  had  passed  —  to 
whose  flames  he  was  still  submitted  indeed,  except  that  the 
sentient  and  perishable  part  of  him  seemed  consumed,  and 
only  the  finer  qualities  survived  combustion.  But  he  spoke 
against  clay.  The  ardor  that  kindled  his  eloquence  only 
served  to  bake  and  harden  the  porcelain  face  confronting 
him ;  he  read  Jane's  doom  on  Berkeley  Hislop's  brow. 

"  I  can  do  no  more  .  .  ."  he  said.  "  It  rests  with  you, 
and  your  conscience." 

Berkeley  Hislop  turned  to  the  door.  The  vicar,  following 
in  his  nephew's  wake,  with  troubled  lips,  confided  as  he 
passed  the  Doctor :  "  Dreadfully  upset.  Dreadfully  upset, 
poor  fellow.  Surely  you  must  see  it.  Left  most  of  his 
coffee  untasted.  What's  to  be  said  in  the  village?  Even 
now,  I  declare,  I  can't  realize  it.  Poor  fellow  .  .  .  poor 
fellow.  What  a  terrible  end  to  his  visit.  So  bright  and 
cheerful  last  night."  At  the  hall  door  three  chill  good-clays 
were  interchanged;  no  hands  were  clasped.  Berkeley  His- 
lop never  turned  his  head  in  tendering  the  formal  word  that 
meant  so  much.  The  vicar,  quitting  the  step  with  a  certain 
aged  reluctance,  as  though  his  body  were  being  torn  away 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  353 

from  this  familiar  spot  on  reasons  insufficiently  compre- 
hended or  established,  called  out  "  Dr.  Bentham  1  Dr.  Ben- 
tham!  .  .  ."  as  the  Doctor  was  closing  the  door.  He 
came  upon  the  step  again. 

"  You  see  the  poor  boy's  contention.  Terrible  thing,  ter- 
rible thing.  Here  we've  been  thinking  the  man  dead  and 
suitably  disposed  of,  and  he  turns  up  drunk  as  a  piper. 
Only  one  eye.  You  can  imagine  the  shock  to  Berkeley's 
system.  I  can't  bring  my  mind  to  discuss  it  this  morning; 
it's  all  too  sudden  and  strange  to  me.  I'll  look  in  again  when 
Berkeley's  gone.  Yes,  yes,  when  Berkeley's  gone."  He 
paused  for  departure  with  a  pained  face,  and  added :  "  God 
bless  me!  .  .  .  I've  been  trying  to  think  of  the  fellow's 
name.  No  matter  ...  no  matter ! "  He  hurriedly 
descended.  "  Berkeley  will  tell  me  when  he's  feeling  more 
composed.  It's  too  much  to  ask  of  you  under  the  circum- 
stances." 


XLII 

JANE." 
Her  white  face  met  him  in  the  hall  as  he  turned 
from  the  door,  and  the  incredulous  eyes  and  dismayed  small 
mouth  struck  a  deeper  remorse  into  his  heart  than  any  he 
had  felt  in  the  presence  of  Berkeley  Hislop. 

"  Numphy    .     .     .    They  have  gone  ? " 

"Yes." 

"  Berkeley  did  not  ask  for  me?  " 

"  No."  He  pointed  to  the  surgery  that  had  been  the 
scene  of  his  first  ordeal  this  morning.  "  Come  in  here,  Jane. 
I  have  something  to  say  to  you." 

She  followed,  holding  her  head  high,  her  chin  tilted. 
There  was  a  tremor  about  her  compressed  nostrils  akin  to 
mounting  anger  or  tears  repressed.  Her  eyes  were  clear 
and  studiously  defiant;  resolved  to  show  no  weakness,  even 
at  the  cost  of  simulating  wrath  to  disguise  the  softer  and 
more  womanly  quality.  They  entered,  and  she  stood  with 
her  hand  upon  the  closed  door,  facing  him.  "  Well  ?  " 

"  I  have  to  break  bad  news  to  you,  Jane.  Can  you  be 
brave  a  while  ?  " 

His  appeal  to  her  courage  softened  her  at  once,  although 
she  professed  displeasure. 

"  Do  you  think  me  a  coward,  Numphy,  that  you  ask  the 
question  ?  " 

"  You  know  the  contrary  too  well.  It  was  only  my  way 
of  preparing  you." 

"  Berkeley  Hislop  has  broken  off  our  engagement  ?  "  She 
spoke  the  words  in  her  coldest  voice  to  let  him  see  she  was 

354 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  355 

not  frightened  of  the  intelligence  that  he  handled  with  such 
masculine  timidity. 

"  Yes." 

He  had  expected,  after  her  first  show  of  recklessness  in 
flourishing  the  truth,  some  further  show  of  bravery  with  that 
formidable  weapon.  Instead,  she  moved  swiftly  forward, 
dropped  on  the  chair  that  so  shortly  before  he  had  offered 
to  her  once-betrothed,  and  sank  into  tears.  Before  the  sight 
of  the  flooded  cheeks  and  heaving  bosom  he  stood  silent  for 
a  space,  remorseful,  self-accusing. 

"  Forgive  me,  Jane.  I  spoke  too  clumsily."  At  that  she 
raised  a  swift,  serpent-like  head. 

"Do  you  think  I  cry  —  for  him?" 

The  accent  laid  upon  the  pronoun  was  quivering  with 
suppressed  scorn. 

"  See."  She  held  out  her  hand.  "  I  have  taken  off  his 
ring  already.  I  should  have  given  it  back  to  him  this  morn- 
ing. The  coward !  —  he  dared  not  face  me.  He  was  afraid 
of  me  in  the  hall." 

She  bit  her  lip  with  swift  vexation.  "  Now  he  will  never 
believe  I  meant  to  ask  back  my  freedom.  What  did  he  say  ? 
Why  is  it  ? "  She  saw  the  momentary  hesitation  in  the 
Doctor's  face.  "  You  need  not  tell  me.  I  am  not  good 
enough  for  him." 

"  No,  no.     That  is  not  the  reason,  Jane." 

"  It  is  the  reason.  I  can  see  it  in  your  face.  And  I  have 
known  it  all  along.  When  I  have  spoken  of  my  childhood 
and  my  mother,  he  has  told  me :  *  I  think  we  might  try  and 
forget  those  unfortunate  days,  Jane.  They  might  be  mis- 
understood.' He  was  ashamed  of  me."  Some  of  the  old 
Jane  rose  rebelliously  within  her  bosom  like  a  sob.  "  Num- 
phy,  I  believe  I  could  hate  him."  The  tears,  repressed, 
started  afresh  with  the  invective,  and  coursed  passionately 
down  her  cheeks.  "  I  never  want  to  see  him  or  speak  to 


356  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

him  again.  I'm  glad  it's  all  over.  I  didn't  love  him  a  bit. 
I  should  have  given  him  up  a  year  ago  —  but  for  Bertha, 
and  Uncle  Horace,  and  you." 

"  Me ! "  The  Doctor,  looking  blindly  about  him,  asked 
whether  this  protracted  ordeal  was  not  a  dream. 

"  Yes,  you.  I  felt  how  terribly  disappointed  you  would 
be.  You  seemed  to  think  so  much  of  Berkeley.  Every- 
thing he  did  was  right.  You  never  gave  me  a  single  bit  of 
encouragement  when  I  tried  to  tell  you  I  was  uncertain  of 
myself.  At  times  I  was  almost  angry  with  you.  I  felt  you 
would  be  glad  —  glad  to  be  rid  of  me." 

"/,  Jane!     Glad  to  be  rid  of  you ?" 

"  Just  at  first  .  .  .  you  used  to  say  you  could  not  bear 
the  thought  of  parting  with  me.  But  after  that  you  grew  so 
cheerful  about  it  I  could  have  cried.  You  said  you  would 
be  able  to  get  on  all  right  without  me  .  .  .  and  I  wasn't 
to  worry  about  that.  You  had  done  it  before  .  .  .  and 
you  could  do  it  again.  I'd  thought  you  would  never  have 
been  able  to  spare  me,  but  you  said  you  could,  quite  easily. 
You  told  me  you  had  Anne,  and  Hester,  and  Holmes,  and 
the  garden,  and  all  your  patients,  and  plenty  of  things  to 
keep  you  occupied  and  happy.  But  when  Berkeley  came 
this  time  .  .  .  and  wanted  to  take  me  away  in  June,  and 
showed  me  the  photographs  of  that  horrid  house,  I  couldn't 
bear  it  any  longer.  I  felt  I  must  speak  at  all  costs,  Num- 

phy." 

Strange  hopes,  or  fermenting  fears  —  his  heart  could 
scarce  tell  which  —  began  to  work  beneath  the  outer  daze 
in  which  her  confession  enveloped  him.  How  inexact  and 
faulty  are  these  vaunted  organs  of  our  mortal  discernment. 
The  object  of  his  love  and  envy  had  been  suffocating  all  this 
latter  while  in  the  atmosphere  he  deemed  so  fresh  and  dear 
to  her.  Even  now,  inspired  by  these  newly  stirred  emotions, 
his  countenance  mistranslated  him  to  her. 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  357 

"  Don't  look  so  stern  and  horrified,  Numphy,"  she  begged. 
"  If  you  only  knew  what  I  have  gone  through.  I  am  not 
fitted  for  a  clergyman's  wife.  I  feel  as  though  —  for  all 
my  trying  —  I  could  never  be  really  good.  Often  and  often 
I  have  jumped  into  bed  at  night  and  forgotten  all  about  my 
prayers  until  the  morning.  And  I  have  done  worse  things 
than  that.  I  have  laughed  in  church.  At  first  my  pride 
kept  me  up ;  I  thought  how  glorious  it  was  to  be  engaged  to 
a  real  clergyman  and  keep  him  all  to  myself,  away  from  the 
rich  parishioners'  daughters  that  wanted  him,  and  worked 
slippers  for  him.  But  after  a  while  —  oh,  Numphy!  it  is 
the  truth,  he  bored  me.  He  put  great  sneering  M's  before 
every  word  he  said:  M'yes!  M'no!  M'probably;  as  though 
he  could  scarcely  condescend  to  speak  to  me.  And  when  he 
was  vexed,  he  only  grew  red,  just  here,  and  said  nothing  — 
when  he  meant  '  Damn '  all  the  time.  And  he  used  to  sulk 
if  anything  did  not  please  him ;  he  would  never  quarrel  with 
me,  like  you.  He  used  to  say,  '  I  prefer  not  to  discuss  it, 
Jane ! '  as  though  I  were  a  housemaid.  Everybody  gives  in 
to  him,  and  somehow  I  used  to  give  in  to  him  too.  Bertha 
begged  me.  '  Don't  vex  him,  Jane,'  she  said.  '  He  feels 
these  things  so.'  But  once  ...  I  will  tell  you.  I  bit 
a  hole  in  a  new  lace  handkerchief. —  How  do  you  spell  '  re- 
ceive,' Numphy?"  He  told  her.  "Well  then,  I  spelt  it 
the  other  way  in  a  letter,  with  the  i  first.  And  he  showed 
it  me  with  one  of  his  horrid  M's,  and  said  that  he  was  a  little 
surprised  at  the  mistake  from  me.  And  I  said :  '  I  have 
spelt  it  that  way  to  Numphy  lots  of  times,  and  Numphy 
wasn't  surprised.'  He  folded  the  letter  and  said,  '  Oh !  If 
you  do  not  care  to  be  corrected  for  your  faults,  we  will 
not  discuss  it,  Jane.'  And  he  tore  up  the  letter  and  put  it 
on  the  fire,  saying,  '  It  will  be  wise  to  burn  it,  I  think.  I 
should  be  sorry  for  it  to  fall  into  the  servants'  hands.'  And 
for  a  long  time  after  —  nearly  an  hour  —  we  did  not  speak. 


358  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

I  went  up-stairs  and  lay  on  my  bed,  and  put  a  corner  of 
my  handkerchief  between  my  teeth,  and  made  up  my  mind  to 
break  all  off  with  him,  and  pulled  till  I  tore  the  lace.  And 
then  I  thought  of  you  .  .  .  and  I  came  down  and  told 
Berkeley  I  was  sorry,  though  I  wasn't  a  bit.  He  just  looked 
up  and  said,  '  So  far  as  I  am  concerned,  I  shall  never  refer 
to  the  matter  again,  Jane.'  We  were  not  a  bit  like  sweet- 
hearts. He  seemed  such  miles  above  me.  I  never  got  to 
know  him  any  better,  and  yet  I  tried  my  best  the  whole  time. 
I  was  always  trying.  O,  Numphy !  "  The  cried  name  came 
torn  from  a  full  heart.  "  You  don't  know  how  I  feel.  It's 
like  a  load  off  my  back.  Once  I  was  all  the  while  sighing 
to  leave  Sunfleet,  and  thinking  how  I  hated  the  rough  roads 
and  grass  lanes  and  country  people,  and  how  grand  it  would 
be  to  live  in  a  vicarage  and  meet  Berkeley's  rich  friends,  and 
go  out  to  dinner-parties.  But  now  I  just  feel  as  though  I 
were  home  again  after  years  of  absence,  and  scarcely  know 
how  to  enjoy  it  enough.  It  seems  too  good  to  be  true.  I 
don't  want  ever  to  leave  you  any  more.  I  want  to  stay  here 
with  you  —  and  keep  house  for  you  —  as  long  as  I  live.  Of 
course,"  the  tears  for  the  thing  to  be  expressed  overcame 
her  and  delayed  it,  "  I  shall  never  marry  now,  Numphy. 
My  mind  is  made  up  on  that  score.  It  is  no  use.  I  am  not 
really  a  marrying  girl.  I  know  it." 

He  said,  "  I  should  be  sorry  to  think  that,  Jane.  Some 
day  I  hope,  you  may  change  your  mind." 

She  nipped  her  lips  and  shook  her  head  to  an  emphatic 
"  Never.  Not  to  go  away  .  .  .  and  leave  you,  Num- 
phy. I  want  to  stay  here  now  —  until  I  die.  Last  night  — 
Why  do  you  stand?  It  hurts  my  neck  to  look  up  at  you. 
Won't  you  sit  down  —  close  here,  by  me.  There  are  such 
lots  of  things  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  tell  you."  He 
seated  himself,  dazed  but  responsive,  on  a  chair  facing  her. 
At  once  she  stretched  out  her  hand,  and  his  own  closed  over 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  359 

it.  "  Last  night,"  she  recommenced  —  and  forthwith  poured 
out  all  the  history  of  their  siege  and  horrors,  that  made  the 
meaning  of  the  vicarage  assault  the  clearer  to  him.  Clasp- 
ing her  fingers,  and  punctuating  the  recital  with  words  of 
suitable  surprise  and  sympathy,  he  yet  dared  not  tell  her  by 
what  close  links  of  kinship  she  was  bound  to  their  so-dreaded 
assailant.  He  let  her  pour  out  all  her  troubled  treasury  of 
thoughts:  her  past  night's  fears  for  his  safety;  her  hopes 
and  prayers ;  remorse  and  resolutions ;  all  those  sacred 
thinkings  consecrated  in  grief  to  be  offered  by  her  lips  to 
him  should  he  be  spared  her.  And  when  she  cried  out  at  the 
conclusion,  "  Numphy  .  .  .  after  all,  there  is  nobody  in 
the  world  I  care  for  .  .  .  like  you.  I  would  rather 
stay  here  and  keep  you  company  than  marry  a  hundred 
Berkeleys,"  he  reached  for  the  second  hand  with  quaking 
courage,  and  held  them  both. 

"  Jane ! "  Some  desperate  energy  seemed  driving  him. 
"  Do  you  care  for  me  well  enough  to  —  to  — "  The  energy 
that  had  impelled  him  so  far  failed  suddenly  there,  and  left 
him  looking  into  her  chill  blue  eyes. 

"  To  what,  Numphy  ?  "  He  looked  at  her  still ;  her  gaze 
never  abated,  but  her  fingers  pressed  his  all  at  once,  very 
tightly. 

"  To  marry  me,  Jane."  Her  eyes  fell.  He  drew  a  long 
breath,  as  if  he  had  emerged  by  a  hair'sbreadth  from  some 
dreadful  danger.  For  a  while  he  thought  the  abruptness  of 
the  declaration  had  driven  back  all  her  sympathies  upon  her 
heart;  that  this  love  of  his,  expressed  and  unexpected,  had 
cost  him  his  high  place  in  her  affections. 

"  I  know  I  have  no  right  to  ask  you,"  he  went  on. 
"  There  is  a  great  difference  in  our  ages.  Over  twenty 
years.  Strictly  speaking  ...  I  suppose  I  am  growing 
an  old  man." 

The  dormant  fingers  tightened  upon  his  fiercely  in  reproof 


360  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

and  protection.  "  Don't,  I  shall  cry  again.  You  can  never 
be  too  old  .  .  .  for  me.  If  you  care  for  me  .  .  . 
now  that  Berkeley  Hislop  has  cast  me  aside  ...  I 
think  this  is  what  I  prayed  for  last  night,  Numphy." 

He  drew  her  hands  and  pressed  them  to  his  breast. 

"  God  bless  you." 

She  wept  a  while,  he  holding  her,  and  then  she  offered  him 
her  lips,  shaped  to  surrender  and  appeal.  The  movement 
recalled  him  curtly  out  of  his  momentary  dream.  He  drew 
back  his  head;  put  her  away  from  him. 

"  No,  no,  I  must  not  yet,  Jane.  My  kisses  are  dangerous 
this  morning." 

A  shiver  shook  him  and  the  hands  he  held  as  he  said  the 
words.  More  than  once  since  his  return  the  chill  message 
had  been  traced  over  his  body,  but  this  one  was  more  vio- 
lently inscribed.  Jane's  eyes  leaped  to  a  startled  scrutiny. 

"  Numphy !  How  strange  you  look.  You  are  shivering. 
What  is  the  matter?" 

"  Nothing,"  he  said,  and  smiled  upon  her.  "  I  got  no 
sleep  last  night.  I  am  tired."  But  a  voice  long  stifled 
within  him  seemed  to  cry :  "  Put  down  the  cup  of  happiness. 
You  have  sipped  your  appointed  share.  Now  another 
darker  cup  confronts  you."  For  last  night,  to  save  a  life, 
in  embittered  disregard  of  his  own  that  he  deemed  so  worth- 
less and  unwanted,  the  Sunfleet  Doctor  had  perpetrated  an 
act  of  foolish  heroism.  Twice  he  had  lent  his  lips  to  suck 
a  breath-way  in  the  clogged  throat  of  Thatcher's  child. 


XLIII 

IF  there  is  anything  by  which  the  Sunfleet  doctor  may  be 
purged  of  his  truthfulness  and  obtain  a  title  to  the  he- 
roic, it  is  surely  his  conduct  now,  beneath  the  dark  brow  of 
death;  that  shrouded  figure,  half  visible  in  the  gloom  of  his 
thoughts,  holding  forth  the  cup  in  muffled  hand.  Before,  he 
had  done  some  brave  enough  things  under  the  spur  of  one 
emotion  or  another:  had  lied,  in  lip  and  countenance,  for 
love's  sake ;  had  put  his  life  in  peril  through  the  courage  that 
comes  of  bitterness,  when,  as  it  were,  we  add  the  last  touch 
to  the  scorn  that  others  have  laid  on  us.  But  now  he  rose 
free  of  all  distorting  passions,  either  for  weakness  or  bravery, 
and  touched  the  highest  point  his  conduct  had  attained.  As 
the  sickness  gained  on  him  he  put  his  house  in  order;  did 
smaller  things  in  this  great  hour  than  an  untroubled  mind 
can  condescend  to  think  of;  wrote  down  such  directions  as 
might  be  necessary  for  Jane's  help  and  guidance,  and  made  a 
brief  will  in  holograph  that  only  fell  short  of  being  a  proper 
legal  instrument  by  the  perspicuity  of  its  phrasing,  and  the 
fact  that  it  allowed  no  possible  scope  for  litigation.  Then, 
feeling  the  enemy  already  breaking  through  his  physical  de- 
fenses, he  sent  Holmes  for  the  Peterwick  doctor,  who  drove 
back  with  him,  and  cried  —  when  he  knew  what  had  brought 
him  — 

"  Good  God,  man!    You  were  never  such  a  fool!  " 

"  Yes,  yes.     I  know  all  about  that,"  the  sick  man  told  him. 

"  But   I   had  to   do   something.     I'd   brought   her   into  the 

world     ...     I  couldn't  let  the  bairn  die,  with  her  father 

and  mother  looking  at  me.    I'd  operated  against  their  wish — 

361 


362  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

I  was  bound  to  justify  the  knife.  Anyhow,  here  are  all  the 
cases.  You'd  better  go  round  to  Kenham  at  once."  He  ran 
through  the  list  of  ailments  on  his  books.  "  Ask  to  see  Mrs. 
Painter's  tongue,  and  be  sure  and  tell  her  it's  a  bad  color, 
or  she  might  be  offended.  Oh,  here's  the  carrier.  You 
know  him,  of  course.  It's  his  back  again.  He  says  mus- 
tard and  turpentine  are  children's  remedies;  you  want  some- 
thing different  for  a  man  close  on  seventy.  Try  acupunc- 
ture, or  cup  him.  You  might  say,  by  the  way,  that  I'm  a 
good  enough  doctor,  but  far  too  fond  of  administering 
strong  drugs.  I  can't  make  him  believe  it.  And  here's  the 
miller's  wife.  She's  a  bit  overdue,  but  that's  her  way.  Pat 
all  the  children  on  the  back,  and  if  you  leave  a  penny  for 
the  bairns  it  won't  go  against  you.  ...  I  must  swab 
this  throat  again." 

The  two  men  had  scarcely  been  on  the  very  best  of  terms 
during  recent  years,  for  no  particular  reason  beyond,  per- 
haps, the  Peterwick  man's  opinion,  born  maybe  of  jealousy, 
that  his  Sunfleet  rival  spread  too  far  afield,  and  was  a  scarce 
close  enough  respecter  of  boundaries.  Also,  by  a  curious 
kind  of  mental  reflection,  it  was  a  fact  that  the  Sunfleet  doc- 
tor had  come  to  acquire  a  reputation  for  some  aloofness 
since  Jane's  advent.  The  Peterwick  man  had  daughters  of 
his  own,  and  Miss  Alston's  complete  detachment  and  inde- 
pendence of  her  local  sex  were  apt  to  be  rather  aggravants 
of  shy  feeling.  But  five  minutes  of  our  hero's  candor  put 
an  end  to  that  in  so  far  as  it  touched  these  two. 

"  If  I  can't  get  this  throat  down,"  he  said,  "  why !  you 
might  do  worse  than  think  of  this  place,  Farrant.  You  could 
work  it  all  right  with  an  assistant."  An  unstudied  state- 
ment that  made  Farrant  quite  husky  at  the  time,  and  led  to 
their  partnership  during  the  course  of  the  next  year. 

For  the  Doctor  did  not  die.  Life  went  very  dark  for  him 
indeed,  and  there  was  weeping  beneath  the  chimneys  of  the 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  363 

big  brick  house;  but  after  a  brief  tussle  with  the  adversary, 
wound  up  for  a  while  in  the  garments  of  death,  so  that  he 
seemed  almost  become  a  part  of  what  he  contested,  he  came 
back  to  sunlight,  and  to  Jane.  And  in  these  hours  of  re- 
covery he  added  infinitely  more  to  the  perplexing  wisdom 
of  the  heart  feminine ;  was  admitted  by  Jane  into  those 
countless  intricacies,  as  into  a  catacomb.  Even  with  her  to 
guide,  he  felt  gloriously  lost  within  its  labyrinth;  marveled 
at  its  immensity ;  wondered  where  it  all  led  to  —  whether 
the  clear  truth  of  heavenly  daylight  was  somewhere  reach- 
able at  the  end  of  it ;  and  shuddered  with  many  a  thought  of 
what  his  case  would  be  were  the  taper-flame  of  the  girl's 
affection  that  lighted  him  a  way  through  it  to  be  extinguished 
now.  Not  that  he  feared  that,  but  the  apprehension  of  it 
offered  a  whetstone  for  the  next  joy  to  sharpen  its  blade  on. 
This  dissection  of  the  human  heart  was  a  subject  dear  to 
Jane;  she  never  tired  of  it;  she  could  cut  up  sentiment  in 
sections  as  a  cook  slices  orange  peel  —  strip  after  strip, 
shaved  as  fine  as  you  please ;  a  hundred  slices  or  more  out  of 
one  orange,  and  dozens  of  fresh  oranges  to  follow  that. 
And  the  woman  in  Numphy,  that  he  had  inherited  from  his 
mother,  stood  him  in  good  stead  with  her  in  this  domain. 
Time  and  time  she  apostrophized  him  belaudingly :  "  How 
different  from  Berkeley  you  are,  Numphy  ...  I  could 
never  have  talked  to  Berkeley  like  that.  You  don't  know 
how  happy  I  am.  Are  you  happy  too  ?  " 

"  The  happiest  man  in  the  world." 

Now  that  this  miracle  had  made  her  his  (sometimes  the 
convalescent  could  scarcely  credit  the  truth  of  it)  he  loved  to 
hear  her  thoughts  audible,  hopping  nimbly  from  prose  to 
poetry,  and  back  again,  like  a  cage-bird  on  its  perches.  The 
thing  that  had  aroused  his  horror  when  she  was  nominally 
Berkeley  Hislop's  awakened  now  his  keenest  joy.  "  Num- 
phy .  .  .  Life  just  feels  like  a  glorious  Sunday  morn- 


364  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

ing.  Of  course  we  shall  have  the  drawing-room  properly 
finished.  I've  been  thinking  a  primrose  paper  would  look 
lovely  —  with  a  deep  ivory  white  frieze.  And  oh,  Numphy ! 
If  only  we  could  have  French  windows  thrown  out !  " 

"  We  could,  Jane     .     .     .     And  we  will." 

"  Numphy !     Do  you  mean  it  ?  " 

"  And  a  new  pianoforte  for  you,  Jane." 

"  No,  no.  You  must  not,  Numphy.  You  are  going  to 
ruin  yourself  for  me.  You  promise  me  everything  I  think 
of."  ' 

"  You  are  worth  it,  Jane." 

By  the  light  of  their  present  relations  she  led  him  deeply 
back  into  the  subject  of  Bertha,  and  his  feelings  towards 
her. 

"  Tell  me  ...  You  never  cared  a  bit  for  her,  Num- 
phy. I  mean,  in  this  way." 

He  said,  "  I  never  did,  Jane."  But  for  his  conscience' 
sake  he  told  her  how  his  heart  had  hovered  at  one  time 
about  the  thought  of  it,  and  why.  And  now  he  was  to  learn 
the  curious  pioneer  part  that  Bertha  had  played  towards  his 
present  happiness.  For,  but  for  her  and  her  confided  ad- 
miration of  him,  Jane's  eyes  might  never  have  been  educated 
to  perceive  him  in  that  dear  coveted  light.  With  her  intro- 
spective candor  she  told  him  so.  "  I  had  never,  never 
thought  of  you  once  in  that  way,  Numphy,"  she  confessed, 
"  until  Bertha  began  to  tell  me :  '  O,  Jane,  isn't  he  splendid ! 
Don't  you  just  love  him?  I  should.'  And  first  of  all  (for- 
give me,  Numphy)  I  used  to  laugh  at  her  and  say :  '  I 
thought  you  loved  tall  men,  Bertha?  Numphy's  quite 
small.'" 

"  About  five  feet  eight,  Jane,"  the  Doctor  told  her  meekly. 
"  Still  .  .  .  not  a  great  height,  I  admit." 

"  The  right  height,  Numphy,"  Jane  assured  him  loyally,  in 
her  dearest  voice  of  championship.  "  I  wouldn't  have  you 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  365 

half-an-inch  taller  .  .  .  Well,  perhaps  half-an-inch,  or 
a  little  more  if  you  like.  That  wouldn't  make  very  much 
difference." 

And  she  described  with  minute  fidelity  and  amazing  pa- 
tience all  the  processes  hidden  from  him  that  had  led  up  to 
her  love.  How,  in  the  first  pride  of  pertaining  to  Berkeley, 
she  had  been  magnanimous  enough  to  try  and  win  him  for 
Bertha;  to  make  Bertha  a  present  of  him  as  a  token  of  her 
affection.  But  how,  even  while  she  acted  mediator  for  her 
friend,  filled  with  longing  to  be  generous,  the  contemplated 
gift  grew  bigger  than  she  felt  she  could  bestow.  When  she 
probed  his  sentiments  toward  Bertha,  she  did  so  with  a 
quaking  heart,  fearing  the  mischief  of  her  intercession 
already  wrought  within  him.  She  thought  how  dreadful  it 
would  ultimately  be  for  her  to  come  to  Sunfleet  as  a  visitor 
and  find  Bertha  occupying  her  place  in  Numphy's  home  and 
bosom ;  all  her  shyness  gone ;  laughing  and  talking  with  him 
in  such  dreadful  freedom ;  showing  Jane  over  the  house  for 
all  the  world  as  if  it  belonged  to  her;  pointing  out  the  im- 
provements with  pride  and  condescension,  and  perhaps 
.  .  .  perhaps  seizing  both  Jane's  hands  behind  some 
newly-painted  bedroom  door  and  confiding,  with  tears  in  her 
eyes :  "  '  Jane !  I  am  so  happy.  I  can  never  thank  you  .  .  . 
enough  for  all  you  .  .  .  you  know.' "  And  she,  Jane, 
would  take  her  leave  at  the  visit's  end  and  bear  back  her 
leaden  heart  to  the  dry  and  smileless  Berkeley.  '  M'yes. 
M'No.  I  prefer  not  to  discuss  it,  Jane.'  O,  Numphy! 
Numphy!  How  dreadful  that  would  have  been. 

"  I  know  my  faults,  Numphy,"  she  went  on  humbly,  re- 
tailing these  faster  than  he  could  check  them  against  his  own 
inventory.  "  I  know,  of  course,  that  I  am  mean,  and  rather 
vain,  and  quick-tempered,  and  jealous,  and  don't  like  anybody 
to  contradict  me  but  you.  But  I  ...  I  want  to  make 
a  good  wife,  Numphy,  and  keep  our  expenses  down.  Prom- 


366  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

ise  me  you'll  be  strict  and  firm  with  me,  and  won't  give  in  to 
me  too  much.  Of  course,  there  are  some  things  in  which 
the  wife  should  have  the  chief  say.  That's  only  right." 

"  There's  just  one  favor  I  would  like  to  ask  of  you,"  he 
told  her.  She  cried  "  A  dozen,  Numphy."  He  said : 
"  When  I  am  quite  well  and  strong,  and  we  are  married  and 
settled  down  ...  I  hope  you  will  not  allow  them  to 
dust  the  surgery  too  regularly.  Once  every  quarter  would 
be  enough.  I  may  be  wrong." 

The  capacity  for  promises,  expanded  inimitably  over  her 
brow  in  expectation,  contracted  to  a  sorrowing  negative  at 
that.  "  I  ...  I  could  not  promise  such  a  thing,  Num- 
phy," she  said.  "  It  would  not  be  fair  ...  to  either 
of  us." 

He  begged  forgiveness  for  asking  too  much  of  her. 

There  was  speculation,  with  fluttering  surmise,  in  Sunfleet 
when  the  strange  reversal  of  Jane's  affection  became  known, 
and  the  news  of  her  betrothal  to  the  Sunfleet  doctor  circu- 
lated. There  were  some  challengings  of  the  truth  in  sundry 
places,  but  none  knew  for  certain  the  cause  of  the  change. 
Pridgeon  was  heard  to  say  he  would  give  a  five-pound  note 
(without  specifying  from  whom  it  would  be  borrowed)  to 
know  if  yon  blind-eyed  chap  had  aught  to  do  with  it.  He 
himself  favored  the  notion,  being  the  author  of  it,  but  Julian 
Alston  —  bitter  with  the  knowledge  that  the  precious  vase 
of  silence  was  irrevocably  shattered,  and  that  he  had  noth- 
ing further  to  hope  or  look  for  —  passed  out  of  Sunfleet  by 
dark,  as  he  had  come  into  it.  Anne,  her  perspicacity  for 
once  at  fault,  saw  nothing  of  the  hand  of  their  blind-eyed 
assailant  in  all  this  upheaval  of  circumstance.  For  her, 
there  was  no  element  of  astonishment. 

"  Folks  mud  'a  foreseen  it,"  she  said.  And  told  her  mis- 
tress, "  Well,  you've  gotten  him  at  last.  Noo  mebbe  you'll 
rest  content,  and  we  shall  sattle  down  a  bit.  I  never  could 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  367 

reckon  up  what  you  seed  i'  yon  other  fellow.  He'd  a  face  to 
turn  milk  sour  when  he  looked  at  you.  All  times  he's  been 
i1  house  he  never  gied  me  a  word.  I  will  say  old  vicar's 
different  frev  yon."  She  spoke  frankly  as  to  the  Doctor. 
"  Pie's  older  than  you  by  a  good  bit,"  she  said.  "  Though 
what  by  that?  You'll  look  as  old  as  him  nobbut  you've  a 
bairn  or  two  tugging  at  you." 

"  Anne !  "  her  mistress  expostulated  hurriedly.  "  I  really 
.  •  .  You  do  say  some  dreadful  things.  It  is  not  every 
one  that  has  a  family."  The  last  sentence  was  tendered  sug- 
gestively, for  encouragement;  which  Anne  was  quick  to  see. 
"  Syke  nonsense,"  the  elder  woman  cried.  "  You've  as  good 
a  chance  of  one  as  anybody.  For  mercy's  sake  don't  waste 
time  about  it.  What  use  will  bairns  be  to  me  when  I'se 
in  my  grave  and  can't  nurse  'em?  I  took  him  fro'  doctor's 
hands  when  he  was  born.  I'd  like  to  hold  one  of  his  before 
I  die." 

Berkeley  wrote  Jane  a  letter  characteristic  of  him;  per- 
fectly Christian,  equable,  dispassionate ;  cool  as  marble  in  the 
shade.  And  on  that  letter  Numphy  tenderly  admitted  her 
to  partnership  with  him  in  the  truth  of  the  past.  At  first 
her  pride,  stung  to  the  quick,  rose  up  to  accuse  the  kindness 
that  had  thus  laid  her  open  to  Berkeley  Hislop's  scorn.  But 
that  kindness  was  Numphy's.  Pride,  as  it  reached  the  qual- 
ity, melted;  reproaches  became  tears;  she  needed  him  too 
dearly;  he  was  her  breast-armor  against  Berkeley  Hislop 
and  the  world ;  the  ocean  in  whose  broad  bosom  her  hurrying 
stream  of  shame  could  plunge  and  lose  itself.  She  said: 
"  If  I  am  not  worthy  enough  for  him  ...  I  am  un- 
worthy of  you,  Numphy.  Are  you  marrying  me  for  pity? 
You  shall  not.  Let  me  go  and  be  a  governess  somewhere." 
And  she  said :  "  How  proud  I  have  been  all  this  time.  What 
must  you  have  thought  of  me !  It  was  wrong  of  you.  You 
should  have  spoken  when  I  was  younger  and  could  bear  it 


368  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

better.  I  feel  I  ought  not  to  wear  any  more  silk,  or  bright 
colors.  That  last  nainsook  blouse  is  far  too  showy.  All 
my  things  ought  to  be  unpretentious." 

And  lastly  she  raised  her  supreme  objection. 

"  Anne  said  .  .  .  was  saying  that  it  was  possible 
(Don't  look  at  me,  Numphy)  .  .  .  Some  people  had 
families  of  their  own.  If  they  did  ...  I  couldn't  bear 
to  think  they  might  one  day  grow  up  to  be  ashamed  of  their 
mother,  Numphy." 

All  these  arguments  were  poured  into  the  broad  sea,  and 
the  broad  sea  embraced  them  all,  and  the  tranquil  vastness 
of  it  showed  no  perturbation  for  their  influx.  She  drew, 
after  a  while,  her  own  calm  from  his;  the  injured  vanities 
repaired  themselves ;  their  secret,  of  these  two,  was  a  further 
bond  between  them,  linking  their  affections.  Also,  the  Doc- 
tor had  dealt  somewhat  kindly  with  the  stern  lineaments  of 
truth,  and  they  grew  less  formidable  as  she  gazed  on  them. 

The  vicar,  a  frequent  visitor  to  the  big  brick  house  during 
the  Doctor's  illness,  shed,  through  sympathy  and  his  own 
loneliness,  all  residue  of  estrangement.  When  he  realized 
that  Jane  was  substituting  "  Mr.  Farebrother  "  for  the  erst- 
while "  Uncle  Horace  "  his  lips  twitched,  and  he  took  her 
hand,  on  going  out,  with  the  old  smile. 

"  I  hope  we  are  Uncle  Horace  still,"  he  said.  "  To  you, 
Jane.  Dear,  dear !  I  declare  I  felt  quite  hurt  when  I  heard 
you  using  the  other  name.  After  all  ...  I  sometimes 
think  there's  a  providence  in  these  things.  It's  difficult  to 
account  for  them  otherwise.  I  suppose  I'm  a  selfish  old 
chap,  like  most  men  when  they  get  to  my  age.  Perhaps  I 
ought  not  to  say  it  ...  but  I'm  glad  things  have  turned 
out  as  they  have.  God  bless  me!  What  would  Sunfleet  be 
if  you  were  all  to  go  away  and  leave  me.  You'll  come  and 
see  me,  Jane,  I  hope  —  just  as  you  used  to  do,  and  take  pity 


THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS  369 

on  my  solitude.  Life  grows  very  lonely  for  an  old  bache- 
lor. I  declare  the  vicarage  has  felt  like  a  hearse  all  the  time 
since  Berkeley  left.  Yes,  yes.  I  missed  my  chance  when  I 
had  it  —  two  chances,  I  ought  to  say;  for  I  believe  I  was 
rather  an  attractive  young  fellow  in  those  days  —  though  it 
was  the  first  one  I  thought  the  most  of.  Every  man  ought 
to  marry.  I  see  it  now." 

To  the  Doctor  he  gave  hand  of  fellowship  renewed,  and 
said  — 

"  Forgive  an  uncle's  feelings.  It's  possible  I  spoke  too 
hastily  at  the  time.  But  it  behooves  me  to  be  done  with 
quarrels  at  my  time  of  life.  I've  been  thinking  .  .  . 
You  were  to  blame,  of  course ;  still,  I  sympathize  with  you. 
After  all,  perhaps  Berkeley  took  it  rather  too  much  to  heart. 
Poor  noble  fellow.  Well,  well.  Let's  hope  providence  sends 
him  a  good  sensible  wife,  with  plenty  of  money.  For  my 
own  part,  I  doubt  very  much  if  he'll  ever  find  a  girl  like 
Jane.  He  might  have  done  worse  than  stick  to  her,  when 
all's  said  and  done.  I  declare  I  become  very  democratic, 
Dr.  Bentham,  as  I  grow  older.  If  I'd  my  time  to  come  over 
again,  I  dare  say  I  should  shake  hands  much  more  than  I 
have  done." 

He  took  his  leave,  radiant  with  the  beams  of  reconciliation 
and  the  inward  powers  of  perfect  understanding,  but  came 
back  again  to  ask  — 

"  When  are  you    .     .     .    When  is  it  to  be  ?  " 

The  Doctor  said,  "  In  June  —  if  Jane  agrees.  We  are  to 
have  six  weeks  abroad.  Farrant  is  going  to  take  my  work 
on  with  an  assistant.  Sometime  we  may  combine  —  there's 
a  talk  of  it.  It  will  make  matters  much  easier." 

"You'll  be  married  in  Sunfleet?" 

"  Why,  yes,  vicar !     To  be  sure.     Where  else  ?  " 

"  God  bless  me !  "  cried  the  vicar.     "  I  declare  I  begin  to 

34 


370  THE  DOCTOR'S  LASS 

feel  young  again.    You'll  have  all  Sunfleet  at  the  wedding. 
And  the  prettiest  bride,"  he  added,  turning  his  smile  indul- 
gently on  Jane,  "  that  has  ever  passed  under  the  old  porch." 
Jane  said :  "  Do  you  think  so    ...    Uncle  Horace  ?  " 


THE  END 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  071  326     3 


